Second Chances
by alicemorganss
Summary: "This is a bad business. It is an often filthy, dehumanizing, mean-spirited life. I assure you I take no pleasure in it. It just comes easily to me. But you are not that way. So I suggest you think long and hard about whether you really want to wake up every morning with all the promise that morning conveys and come with me." She has to make a choice to stay or go. Future/baby fic.
1. Chapter 1

I was re-watching Boston Legal during the hiatus and some of Alan's quotes struck me as something Red would say. So, this fic kind of spawned from that and also Red's monologue with Ressler in 109. Just a pre-warning: this isn't going to be a top priority as I have a lot of things going on in real life (grad school, work, work, internship, making sure I have a small, small social life outside the former list) that take up a lot of my time.

This is a set up for a red/liz baby fic. but obviously you know i have to set the stage before things happen. i do have some of it written and drawn out. okay. And if you want to see anything in particular, feel free to PM or ask box me on tumblr (harrietspecter) and I'll try and fit it in. This is kind of a prompt-like fic. I have a few of my own but would welcome ideas from any and all. Especially those who don't feel up to writing themselves and want to see something ~magical~.

To be clear for this chapter: I have not visited Washington DC. I am a vegetarian. Wine is not my favorite. So, hopefully I describe these things in this piece of fiction well enough from basic reference searching. This is set some time in the future.

* * *

He's already at her house by the time she gets home from the Post Office. Its not especially late-just after six-when she finally walks in. She feels almost like a regular nine to five worker instead of a federal agent who usually works 16 hour days. Though, just because she's home just after six doesn't mean the day hasn't been tiring. Its been a long day with capturing yet another blacklister and watching Meera behind the one way mirror as she interrogates the man for more information. In the raid they caught him with plans but he had easily set fire to them as they splintered the door. The FBI really did need some quiet tactics for breeching houses these days.

She's noticed Red's been lingering less and less at the Post Office as the more dangerous criminals get apprehended. Of course he was there in the beginning, staging the briefings and hinting not so subtly of how they should approach a take down of the blacklister. They were getting closer and closer to the end of the list Red had in his mind. They had only breeched one of the top ten-Anslo Garrick was number nine-but that didn't seen to matter to anyone save Red himself. After all, he never really gave away what number each blacklister was. No, that was saved for himself. He stashed his list in one of Frederick's manuscripts. She didn't mean to stumble upon it but she did and he had carefully written each of the names and numbers of each blacklister. The paper was well worn and muted white which suggested he really had been cultivating this list for over twenty years. She couldn't help but notice some of the names on the list were the ones that got away from her when she was in mobile psych. He really had been paying attention to her career. He never really stayed for the post-capture de-briefings but he did sometimes wait around and see if she was free for dinner or to drive her home if she had taken public transport that day. Countless criminals of all varieties have been captured or killed at the hands of her and her team as well as Red and Dembe.

As she hangs her coat on the rack by the door, she notices the familiar fedora hanging on a peg. She frowns at it and turns into the living room to find Red lounging on her couch. She leans against the entryway as he looks up from petting Hudson who had his nose on one of Red's knees.

"What are you doing here?" she asks. "Where's Dembe?"

"Checking in," he says flippantly. As if she should have expected him here tonight. "He's finding a parking spot. You picked a terrible street to live on, Lizzie. Absolutely no parking anywhere."

"You call every night," she tells him as she walks into the room. "It's Washington, D.C. What do you expect."

He laughs hollowly and smooths his tie and vest as he shifts. Hudson whines and Red tells him to hush with a pat on his furry head. She thinks her dog loves her two companions more than he does her.

Instead of sitting across from him at the single chair, she joins him on the couch. She folds herself into the corner and props her elbow against the back of the couch and her head is in her hand as she looks over at him. She sees the small smile that appears on his lips as she does so. Little things always seem to get that reaction as of late. She finds it much too interesting to really profile it. Wants it to stay a mystery as to why. Though she thinks she might know the real reason.

"Why the change?" She asks.

He works his jaw. The arm that's stretched out over the back of the couch taps the thumb in a beat and he opens his mouth only to close it once again and smile at her instead.

"How about dinner?" he asks. He's avoiding the question all together. A none too subtle evasion. I know this quaint little place downtown. I think you'll absolutely love it.

"And then you'll tell me the real reason you're here?" she asks.

"We'll make a Bedouin trader out of you yet, Lizzie," he smirks. "You'll need a dress."

She huffs and frowns but heads up the stairs to change anyway. She thinks that maybe he should just set a day he wanted to dine with her and stick to it so she wouldn't have to change twice in one day. But god forbid Raymond Reddington ever became predictable. Predicability was not his nature. Sometimes he'd ask to dine with her three days in a week and sometimes he'd go a whole month without a question to her. He certainly had his quirks, she thought as she stood at her closet.

* * *

He was never anything short of a gentleman on these nights they wined and dined. Not that he wasn't a gentleman on other days. It was simply that she was reminded Red adores chivalry and he always helps her into her coat, opens the doors, and lets her proceed him inside places. He always pulled out her chair as well. She couldn't even remember the last person who had ever done that with her. Tonight he drove her car, the Polar Silver Sports Package CLA. The car she had received one day out of the blue. She had asked him why and he shrugged as he handed her the key. When she looked inside, she watched him smirk as she looked around at the red cut interior-the seat belts and top-stitching of the seats and door trim was the same red color. She also noticed the red-painted brake calipers. He brought it to her just before Anslo Garrick, she remembers. Tom wondered where she got it but she never said. She had told him she received some money from Sam. Which technically was true, but Red had taken care of that in a private account, away from Tom's reach. When Red gave her the car he had only one stipulation: Tom was not to drive it. That was never an issue, fortunately. Although jealous of her, he was glad to have his Jeep to himself.

Before tonight Dembe had always been the driver. But tonight Dembe was keeping Hudson company. When she had come down from changing her clothes, he was speaking with Red and had a bag of takeout containers in his hand. When he drove, he sometimes joined them as a table for three rather than a table for two. Tonight it was definitely not a question that it was a table for two type dinner.

She'd heard of The Capital Grille as he pulled up to the valet and she looked up at the name of the restaurant on the sign. She'd seen it in the restaurant reviews of in-town steak houses and she hears this is the place to go if you want policy to be heard. Of course she's never been. It's had been far too fancy of a place when she was with Tom and she doesn't think this place was a table for one type restaurant. It's no surprise Red chooses this place. Nor is it a surprise he is known here; it's his kind of place, after all.

He gets out and receives a ticket for the car. The valet on her side opens her door but she finds Red's hand to help her out. She takes it and wraps her arm in the crook of his elbow as they walk into the restaurant. His fedora and coat and her own coat are hung in a coat closet and he gets yet another ticket. The table is set in a private, quiet alcove of the dining room. He pulls out her chair, as usual, and unbuttons his suit jacket before he sits in his own chair across from her.  
A few minutes into perusing the menu a sommelier appears out of thin air. She looks up to find Red watching her.

"Allow me?" he asks.

She nods in agreement. She's only ever been the supermarket kind of wine person. And even then it's whatever Chardonnay that's on sale. Red orders and he looks at her as he hands the wine list back.

"They don't have the variety I had hoped. I hear this one is all right for this small selection," he tells her.

She shrugs her shoulders and watches as Red reads the menu as he waits for the wine.

The sommelier comes back with the bottle, '07 Hess Collection 19 Block Cuvée, she overhears. She watches Red as he watches the man uncork the bottle with precision. As the man pours a small amount into a wide bulb glass, Red picks it up by the stem and brings the brim to his nose. She notices his brows pinch and then rise as he tips the glass and swirled the burgundy colored liquid around in the glass. He takes a sip and his lips set and brows rise she thinks in half surprise, and he sets the glass down where it began.

"This will do," he nods.

The man nods in return and pours a standard glass for both Red and Liz.

"It's a bit of a mix-Bordeaux-Syrah blend; only gets better as it finishes," he tells her. "Go on."

She's sure everyone would think she is ridiculous as she sniffs and tastes it just as Red did moments ago. She's only thankful he sent the sommelier away before he asked her to taste. She smells blackberries, she thinks. There's a peppery smell to it; like after freshly ground peppercorns were being ground in front of her and into the wine. She even gets hint of tobacco. Not overpowering like you get walking through a den of smokers outside buildings. Rather, it smelt like Red did after he had a long, rougher-than-usual day and would sit in the quiet of her home. It didn't happen too often-she's noticed it happened if she was hurt or taken from him and he had to go and find her with Ressler and Dembe-but it was always the same whenever he did. He'd be at the backdoor rather than the front, smoking a cigar on the wooden steps with Dembe until she came home. He'd stamp it out and Dembe would disappear whenever she opened the sliding glass door. And then he'd walk in, leaving an unmistakable scent trail of chilly DC nights, earthiness from sitting in the garden, and tobacco from his cigar. She let the wine sit on her tongue-not long because she was afraid the dark liquid would stain her teeth or tongue or both-but enough to try and get some kind of flavor profile. It tasted nothing like it smelled. Rather than blackberries and hints of peppery tobacco, she tasted cherries with a slate kind of aftertaste.

"I know red is not your favorite but you must branch out of your comfort zone some of the time, Lizzie," Red chuckles to himself.

"I'm not that afraid of new things," she quips.

She looks up after putting the glass back above her plates and finds him completely immersed in the menu. A tactic if she had ever seen one.

Despite the notion she had in her mind that she would never let a man order for her, Red asked her permission before doing so and she gave him her concent. It wasn't so strange anymore that he anticipated her needs and what her favorite things are. The first round he ordered a half pomegranate and goat cheese salad-it wasn't on the menu that she saw but their waiter had no objection; the appetizers he ordered were mini lobster and crab cakes that boasted they had beautiful pieces of meat with little filling; and for the main dish he ordered steak au poivre with courvoisier cream-medium rare for both, light on the peppercorn crust. He also ordered two shared side dishes: mashed potatoes-she didn't miss the little change in his tone as he recited the name of the potatoes: Sam's mashed potatoes, and the French green beans with shallots and heirloom tomatoes.

"Why'd we come here?" she asked as she cut into her steak.

The meat was beautifully cooked, the peppercorn crust wasn't overpowering. And she thinks maybe Red's order of less crust in the first place saved her from having too much pepper and not enough meat taste.

"I've always wanted to come here for dinner," he says as he forks his own cut of steak and circles the sauce.

"You've never been here?" she asked skeptically.

"Once," he said. "I brought Luli here for her birthday, for lunch. She wanted to try the lobster mac and cheese."

She looked down and smeared her mashed potatoes with her fork. She had accidentally stumbled upon a seemingly sore subject.

"It's not a difficult subject for me to talk about, Luli and I," he tells her quietly. She looks up as he continues. "Luli will always be a part of my life but I do enjoy talking about her; telling stories about her. She did enjoy you a great deal. She said she had never met another woman besides herself that could surprise me as much as you do."

Liz smiles in the corner of her mouth and a brief, quiet laugh escapes.

"I liked her, too," Liz says. "I just wish I had gotten to know her like I know Dembe."

Red nods and turns to conversation to something more lighthearted. He chuckles as he retells the story of Ressler's day with himself and Dembe while she was out with Meera chasing down leads. Apparently Ressler didn't like not having the ability to drive when Red is his "partner" for the day.

After dinner and another glass of wine, she ordered the creme brûlée for dessert while he went for a tumbler of 16-year-old Lagavulin. She was used to his staring by now but she wondered when she had gotten comfortable with him watching her as she sat across from him in this kind of setting. Typically for dessert when they went out and with Dembe, he often got another drink while she and Dembe ordered from the dessert menu. She had learned Dembe had quite the sweet tooth and he was quite powerless to any and all forms of caramel. During her musings, Red's spoon snuck it's way over to her dessert-as it usually did-and he cracks the burned sugar before coming up with the creamy vanilla custard.

She half protested but smiled with her own spoonful as he commented on her choice.

"It looks like chocolate at the bottom," she points out. She tips her dessert towards him to let him see the hard chocolate was indeed lined in the bottom, underneath the vanilla custard.

"Dark or milk?" He asked.

She scooped a small spoonful and made sure to scrape the chocolate layer to look.

"Dark," she says as she shows him the spoon's layers. As she takes her spoonful, she none too subtly pushes her creme brûlée to the midpoint between them. She nods with her head and watches as he takes his own spoonful. If there's one thing she really knows about Raymond Reddington it's that he adores a good chocolate, especially if it's dark. And this base layer of the creme brûlée is one of the best she's had in a while. Of course, nothing beats the one time Red had detoured in Switzerland and brought her back a dark chocolate caramel sea salt bar from a little shop next to one of his banks. That chocolate bar had unfortunately not lasted long and he didn't often go enough to Switzerland to get another one.

They shared the dessert until it was finished. She held the smirk in as Red scooped up the last remaining chocolate in the crevices of the ramekin after she placed her spoon on the serving plate and napkin on the table. Between bites, the bill had come but she hadn't seen it for long. He never looked at the bill, she realized. He set his card down as soon as the bill was placed next to him and it was taken moments later. She also noticed he never tipped on his card. Rather, he pulled out crisp bills and laid them inside with the signed receipt. He definitely had interesting qualities about him. When they left their table and returned to the coat check, her arm wrapped around his own after their coats were returned and she huddled closer as they waited for her car outside the restaurant.

"Thank you," she whispered as she leaned into him.

"It's not often I get to dine with a beautiful woman," he replies.

They both know its a lie. She dines with him often and he doesn't make much of a fuss about it. But he seems to be placing a lot of weight on whatever this is so she doesn't say anything else.

* * *

Dembe was waiting for them with Hudson laying down at his feet. The dog perked up at the sound of the door opening and both man and dog walked to the door to find Red and Liz walking in the door.

"If we are going to the meeting," Dembe trailed off.

"Bring the car around. It won't take long," Red nodded.

Dembe pat Hudson's head before leaving out the door they just came through.

"What meeting?" She asked. "What aren't you telling me?"

Red bit his lip and looked down at his shoes.

"We're getting closer to the end, Lizzie," he starts. "The deal I made with the government for the blacklist, the immunity deal, it is a sham."

"What?" She asked. Her brows furrowed in confusion.

"My informant in the Justice Department tells me as soon as we finish the blacklist, I will be finished. I will go into the hole they tried to place me in before and I won't be seeing the light of day again."

"Who told you this?" She asked. It seemed like it was some fictional plot line of a television show, being locked away forever. But she believed it with Red. After all, she had to travel by helicopter to an oil freighter in the middle of the ocean to talk to him before he was released with his immunity deal. Sometimes she had to remind herself she was dealing with one of the FBI's most wanted criminal and not someone who has been one of her closest confidants.

"Fitch Crowley," he told her. "He works for the number one on the blacklist as well as the Justice Department."

"Where will you go?" She asked.

"I can't tell you," he shook his head.

"Your chip...they'll find you," she trailed off as he gave her a look. "You took it out already, didn't you?"

"I didn't want them to know I visited you before I left. If they did know, you'd be put in a hole in the ground and interrogated every day until you give something up."

"You can't just leave," she tries.

"I can disappear without a trace in sixty seconds," he tells her. "I can't be captured, Elizabeth. Not until I get number one. And number one is impossible to take down without getting myself killed. And I, for one, am not ready to die just yet."

His hand cupped her face as she tried to look away. His eyes bore into hers and she but her lip. His hands skimmed down her neck, tracing her collarbone, playing with her hair and tracing his fingers over her collarbone yet again as he spoke.

"If you come with me, you will most likely be put on the most wanted list next to my own name. Your reputation will no longer be yours but mine. I do not wish to tarnish your name but if you choose to stay here, I will not and cannot contact you for some time. They must believe us to be completely disappeared from each other's lives."

Her breathing hitches. She's never been one for a contingency plan. Of course in the back of her mind she knew the closer he got to the end of the list, he'd be borrowing time. She had told him they would never give him immunity the day he told her about the freelancer. But she never expected this. She never expected to feel anything other than contempt for the man who turned her life upside down at the utterance of speaking only with Elizabeth Keen.

"I'm not going to beg you to allow me the privilege of having you at my side, Lizzie," he tells her. "I only want you to know that I wouldn't object to your decision if you did come."

His hand skips from her collar and down her coat, skimming the material at her hips and she looks up at him rather than the space between them. His thumb sneaks in between her coat and begins a rhythm as it plays back and forth, waiting for her answer.

They've been doing whatever this was for a while. Dates but not really because it was just dinner with the three of them. But sometimes dinner with just the two of them. She often dressed up-because he and Dembe were always sharply dressed daily-and he always paid. He called her daily even if they weren't currently pursuing a blacklister. She curled up on the couches of his houses and watched the sun disappear and sometimes she felt the sun rise on her face. Mostly Frederick's house but sometimes at one of his safe houses or the hotels she knew weren't bugged by the FBI. And he lounged on hers with a book in one hand and the other on Hudson's head.

"I can't," she whispers as she holds his gaze.

She's dreamt about this more often than not-what she would do as the blacklist dwindled. Logically she knew this would be a scenario-him running. But she never really thought it to be a real possibility. He doesn't outright ask her because he doesn't want to face the disappointment he knows would come with the question. She once told him she had a life but as she stands with the man who said he has her, she realizes she's only really ever had him, too. Sam's dead and Tom's long gone. Her closest friends are fellow agents who she doesn't really ever see unless they need her to get Red to do something outside his agreement. Although, Ressler is more willing to be her friend than any of them. He often suggests they pair up and he's been more of a friend to her than she has to him. But she appreciates the friendship he's given to her nonetheless. The only ones that have really, truly been there for each step of the way are Red and Dembe. But she can't leave. Not yet. She can't give up what she's built here.

She doesn't want to look up because she knows what she will see in his eyes. She doesn't want to see the disappointment after so many times of him being proud of her. He tilts her chin up anyway and her tongue snakes out, wets her lips, and she bites her lower one.

"If you need me, I will be there, eventually," he tells her. "Dembe has an email with the last of the names and locations of everyone left on the blacklist. It will be sent to Cooper when we are safely in the air, away from any US jurisdiction."

She nods. She doesn't comment on the wavering tone she hears in his voice. And she thinks maybe its harder on both of them to do it in person rather than on the phone. She doesn't miss the sad smile, the working of his jaw, the twitch in one cheek as his eyes mist.

"Goodbye, Lizzie," he nods once.

His lips touch the corner of hers and she thinks that maybe this is the hardest thing she's ever done. She forces her eyes to stay open, memorize the feel of his lips against hers, his fingers against her soft skin as he barely touches her jaw. The lump in her throat keeps her from saying anything as she feels him stepping away.

When she hears the door close she moves to the stairs and collapses onto the stairs with a shattering sob she can't help but try and mask with her hand.

She's not sure how long it's been but knows it's been too long since her butt is quite numb from sitting on the stairs. She's sure she has an indent from the banisters on her forehead. Hudson comes and places his head on her knees and she chokes out a laugh as he whines. She's not sure who the dog will miss more-Red or Dembe.

"Oh buddy," she sighs. "I think I might have made a mistake."

As she scratches his neck, a slip of paper in his collar catches her attention. She frowns and unrolls it as soon as it's in her hands.

She sees two words and a time written on a slip of paper. It's not his writing but it is familiar. She can't help but laugh because if she doesn't laugh she will start crying again and she doesn't really want to do that. She stands and goes to find a matchbook in the kitchen, Hudson tagging along begging her. Standing at the sink and lighting the piece of paper on fire, she wonders if she's making the right decision.

* * *

When Dembe pulled the car around and opened the door for his employer he took a little longer than necessary to pull away from the curb.

"She's not coming?" Dembe asked as he glanced in the rearview mirror.

Red turned from staring out the window to meet Dembe's eyes.

"Doesn't look like it," he says slowly.

He wasn't sure what he was really expecting when he asked or didn't ask. He kind of just let the situation circle around them and left after she said she couldn't come with him. He didn't want to try and persuade her. He didn't want to be responsible for potentially ruining her career. He'd write a letter, make sure Cooper knew she tried to get him to stay or something to that effect. He'd think on it.

"Your contact has all your passports and documents ready now," Dembe says as he drops the subject of Elizabeth Keen quickly.

"We'll meet him and then head to the airfield. I'd like to leave on schedule," Red tells him.

"Of course," Dembe nods.

Red stares at the darkened city only illuminated by the street lamps as Dembe maneuvers the S-Class through the suburbs of DC.

When Red meets his contact he is his usual flippant self. Dembe notices the mask he wears and he pays handsomely for the documents and passports. They're clean, the best Red's money and reputation can ever buy. Dembe chuckled because he thinks he may see Canada's passport book cover as Red slips it out to view the picture.

He refrains from speaking with Dembe the rest of the way to the airport. Instead he pulls out the passports and flips it open to the second page where the identification photo stares back at him. He's used one of her older training photos since he had the man backdate the passports a bit so as not to cause alarm. He'll forge some entry and exit stamps on his own when he's on the plane. He thinks he'll keep hers. Maybe she'd need it eventually. After all, it's a long way to the Yunnan province for some silent meditation. He's sure it's a bad idea but that's the only way he can force himself not to make contact with Lizzie. He'd be tempted elsewhere with a pay phone on every corner and Dembe's sat phone with him at all times. No, to release Elizabeth Keen from all ties with him means no people trailing her, no contact; nothing but his own thoughts to last him a lifetime. Because he's sure she can very well take care of herself. But maybe when the meditation is done, he'll do some surveillance from afar.

* * *

She thinks she's made it-the right decision-as he steps out of the Mercedes with a surprised look on his face as she stands at the stairs of his jet with nothing but a bag of her most precious things-that wouldn't be noticed if she was declared missing or a fugitive or something-and a mangy mutt tugging at his lead. On the way here she psyched herself out thinking that maybe it wasn't really an offer since he didn't outright ask her. But as soon as he stepped out of the car, with a smile trying to be masked in his surprise, she knew the offer was legitimate and she had made the right choice after all.

Dembe steps up first, takes her bag and Hudson from her as he and Red step away from the Mercedes and to the jet behind her. She hears more than sees the man and her dog climb the stairs.

He grasps her shoulder as if he doesn't believe her to be real and standing in front of him. Or maybe he's just strangely observing the third wardrobe change of the night for her. At least she has the same coat on-the burgundy one he's grown quite fond of these days.

"Why'd you come?" he asks. He's serious, she realizes. And she thinks that maybe since he's lived almost his entire life on the run he's had no one do anything for him that wasn't for wholly unselfish reasons.

"I wanted something," she says.

He nods and she smirks.

"Answers to questions, no doubt," he retorts.

She chuckles, shakes her head.

"You," she says simply. "I want you."

He looks like a kid again. Astonishment is written all over his face as she steps closer.

"I want answers, too. But I realized something after you left," she tells him. "I want a life. One with a family and friends that I can depend on and they can trust me to keep their back, too."

He pauses, looks at her and looks up to see Dembe and Hudson in the entrance of the plane, waiting.

"Lizzie, I must tell you something before you completely give up everything you know."

She nodded.

"This is a bad business. It is an often filthy, dehumanizing, mean-spirited life. I assure you I take no pleasure in it. It just comes easily to me. But…you… are not that way. So, I suggest you think long and hard about whether you really want to wake up every morning with all the promise that morning conveys and come with me. Which I say to you only because I care."

"You think I haven't dealt with your world before?" she asks. "Should I make a list for you: my father-birth and Sam, my ex-husband, not to mention everyone we've captured or killed on the blacklist that has kidnapped or tried to kill any of us. I may not be totally familiar with going on the run but I'm not naïve, Red. I know what's out there. And I know you'll do everything you can to keep that from me but I can handle it. I trust you."

It's his turn to chuckle and shake his head in disbelief.

"Well then," he says as he turns them both to face the stairs. "It's time to stand at the helm of your own destiny, Lizzie. Pick somewhere, anywhere."

"I just have one question though," she says as she turns her head to look at him.

"Fine," he nods.

"What's going to happen to my car?" She asks. She looks over at the two Mercedes parked next to one each other in the shadows of the hanger.

"I suppose I'll just add it to my shipment," Red tells her. "It will of course go to the house and will be taken care of until we can safely reach it without having any attention drawn to us."

"House?" She asks.

He hums a yes and she's quite curious to learn more. But she can see he's really waiting for a destination.

"I've never been to Paris," she tells him.

He smiles and takes her hand. He leads her up the stairs of the plane and tells the pilot they're final destination is to Paris.

As she walks towards the back of the plane where the better seats are, she notices Dembe's small smile he can't wipe off his face, nor can Red clear the one from his.

They're halfway between the entrance and tail of the plane when Red finally realizes he hasn't quite shared his feelings about her surprising decision.

"Oh, and Lizzie," red trails off.

She turns and is about to answer when his lips are fully on hers, hands running through her hair and cradling her head gently. It takes her a moment and she grabs his fedora off his head before it knocks against her forehead again. He tilts his head one way and she goes the other as her free hand curls into his collar and up around his neck. The fedora carrying hand reaches around and her arm rests on his shoulder as she crossed her arms behind his neck and pulls herself a step closer. The passion he displays is not muted; not hidden from her because he no longer fears that she won't return his feelings. She's come here on her own violation, willingly given up her life because she wanted him, willingly initiated this kiss. He trails off, one long kiss turns into shorter ones which turn into a simple, chaste peck of their lips. He pulls back thoroughly satisfied with himself as she unconsciously licks her bottom lip and bites the lip he was tempted to thoroughly kiss and nip at in the future. He sweeps her into his arms and she giggles against his skin. Her little breaths against his skin remind him this is real. He pulls her back again so he can see her face, mapping it as he takes her in. It's long, drawn out, and she thinks that maybe he thinks he should memorize her face, lest she have second thoughts about this now. And then he kisses her again, sweet, gentle, even loving. She felt the genuine smile and feelings as he pulled her close.

"Raymond," Dembe calls out from the front of the plane.

Red turns and his eyes open slowly, his brow raises in question, as if he's surprised to find the other man here, and tilts his head in question.

"Roderick says we're taxiing," he tells him.

"Oh," Red nods. "Right."

He pulls away from her and moves to the side of the plane where two seats sit side by side. He lets her choose her seat and then sits beside her. It's only after she tossed his fedora on the table next to her and has her seatbelt fully fashioned when she turns to him. This time it is her who takes the lead; her fingers tracing his jawline before angling her head as she moved closer. He holds her closer, glad she hadn't pulled down the arm rests that divide the seats, and Liz sighs as his tongue coaxes hers to join his, finds herself swept away. Liz enjoys the touch, but she thinks she might get to him and his subconscious better if she alleviates some of his worries. She pulls away and looks at his green eyes, overflowing with untamed feelings-feelings only for her. She can also see the question slowly rising to the surface.

"You don't scare me anymore, Raymond Reddington," she says quietly.

His twitch of a smile suggests to her that he likes it when she uses his full name or maybe he's finally glad she trusts him with her life. Perhaps both.

"Life as you know it is about to change, Lizzie."

She's glad. Maybe for once she'll be able to see everything, do everything she wishes to accomplish. She only smiles at him, genuinely, and caresses his jawline before turning to face the window. She doesn't miss him grabbing her hand and rubbing gently at her scar. As she turns and looks him in the eyes she hopes to convey everything she doesn't say aloud: there will be time for that; there will be time for everything.


	2. Chapter 2

I thank you all for giving this a read and appreciate all the feedback. This won't be a weekly updated thing. It was rather a fluke I even got this done in a week. There's a part two to this chapter that should be out soon enough. (it was just too long to cram into one chapter. unless you guys like reading 13,000 words at once. lol)

Once again, stole something from Boston Legal. I think you'll find that to be the common theme each chapter since this fic kind of spawned from my Boston Legal re-watch.

* * *

Harold Cooper was in deep shit. He had lost his intelligence asset and the one agent that could be used in finding him. When Special Agent Elizabeth Keen had vanished without so much as a trace, he hadn't known what to think. But then an e-mail had come through-untraceable, of course-with all the information needed to finish off Reddington's blacklist. And then he put two and two together. Reddington was escaping before the immunity deal he had received in the beginning of their quest was null and void, Diane Fowler made sure to point out that much. String him along and don't let him escape, were her words as he was pulled into her office after he brought back the signed paperwork.

He sighed as he thought about the paperwork, the meetings, the Senate hearings he'd have to go through now. And his entire command would be under the microscope. If there was one dirty agent, would there be another? He had to act quickly but quietly. He wasn't completely sure what he was going to do but he did need proof before he acted on anything. If anything, Raymond Reddington's witch hunt had taught him that much.

"What do we have?" Harold Cooper's voice echoed in the quiet of the Post Office.

"Nothing out of the ordinary," Meera Malik responds as she clicks a mouse at her computer station and the overhead monitors light up with paperwork she's been digitally sifting through since this morning.

"Aram, anything?" Cooper turned to him.

"Red and Liz call each other every night. He seems to be using a different burner phone each week; completely untraceable. It seems like around the time she gets off from the Post Office. So, things didn't change there. And there's been no usage on either of their cell phones since they turned them off last night," Aram says from his computer station.

Copper makes his way over and looks at the technical jibber jabber on the screen in front of him. He squinted at the screen and found he didn't understand a thing. He nodded and looked around the room.

"Liz's car must have a GPS; so does Reddington's for that matter," Meera said aloud.

"Reddington had some of his guys do something to it so they couldn't be traced by GPS," Ressler piped up absentmindedly.

"And you know this how?" Cooper said as he turned to the younger agent.

"Liz and I were meeting Reddington one day and she drove. A few weird screens came on before the GPS would boot up and take us to the location," he shrugged. "I asked her about it and she just told me Red had his techs modify it. As if you couldn't tell just by looking at it."

He looked around and noticed all of them looked at him in confusion.

"I guess you'd have to see the car," he sighed. The joke clearly went over their heads.

"What about his chip?" Cooper asked as he figured the car would now get him nothing.

"He took it out before he left," Meera shrugged. "By a medical professional or with Dembe's help. Ressler and I went to his location when you called and the chip was just lying there on the counter in his hotel room bathroom. Staff said they hadn't seen Liz last night or at anytime. So, we don't technically know if they're together or not. Either way, this will get calls faster if we put out a simple alert."

Ressler watched as the FBI most wanted tag appeared in screen with both Red and Liz's picture. Red hadn't been moved back to four. So Keen has become four and he was still two.

"We can't yet," Cooper shook his head. "If we put this out, this place will shut down until the Senate hearings are through and even then it would be a long shot until we're open again. No, this has to be kept in house until we find proof Agent Keen is with Reddington."

"Agent Ressler," Cooper said as he shifted from Meera to Donald. "I want you to go to any safe house you know of; look through papers, whatever kind of information is there if there is anything. Find me something on Reddington and possibly Keen's location."

"Yes, sir," he noted. He gave Meera Malik a look as he passed her and moved to the elevators that would take him to the subfloor garage.

Ressler let himself into the house he had once trailed Keen to after she had gotten grazed with a bullet as they took down a blacklister. She had gotten field medical treatment but refused a hospital visit. He asked if she would be all right and she had told him it wasn't anything a good book and a glass of milk couldn't fix. He had laughed at the sheer absurdity of having milk as the cure all drink but whatever floated her boat. That night he had watched her park from a far, knowing this was not her house from what he had remembered in her personnel file. He wasn't really sure what he was expecting to find other than her go-to person at the other side of the door. But he was still oddly surprised when Reddington not only opened the door himself but was seemingly dressed down in comparison to his usual outfits. His fedora was gone, suit jacket, vest, and tie disposed of as well. And he didn't miss when Keen moved past Reddington into the house, the man looked in his direction and gave him a nod. As he pushed the memory back into the recess of his mind, he walked around the house, not necessarily looking for the man and woman in question. More like he wanted answers to questions he's had for more than five years of hunting Reddington now. There was no Anslo Garrick type individuals to leak where Reddington's location was to him this time around. Slowly he himself had been eliminating that possible informant list without really knowing that was what he was doing.

He sat himself down on the couch and picked up a few books, half-heartedly looking through them. He found a bottle of milky white substance and smelled it. This was obviously far from milk, despite the color.

His phone suddenly rang and he picked it up, frowning at the Unknown on his caller ID.

"Ressler," he answered.

"Donald," a familiar voice rang out. "I do see you've made yourself quite comfortable in my home. You should know that is Lizzie's favorite spot."

"Where the hell are you, Reddington?" he asked. He looked around. He knew a camera was in the room otherwise Red wouldn't have called and he certainly wouldn't have known what seat he had taken.

"Fear not," Red told him. "Lizzie is perfectly fine here. She rather likes seeing the world."

"Let me talk to her," Ressler answered.

"She and Dembe went for a walk with Hudson. It's just me and this iPad device watching your every move. If you are looking for our location you certainly won't find it in stacks of books and manuscripts," Red said. "But I promise no harm will ever come to her."

Logically, Donald knows this. But he wants to make sure Keen is okay and needs to hear from her that she went willingly and this wasn't some kind of weird kidnapping or Stockholm syndrome or something.

"Malik wants to put her in your old spot," Ressler said. He had no idea why he was telling the man this. He knew he'd eventually find out but not knowing where your friend was in the world was possibly making him feel he should tell the man she was with. "Cooper's holding off until he gets proof she's with you."

The phone on the other end was silent for some time.

"Reddington?" he asks after the silence extends too long.

"I'm still here, Donald," his voice rings out.

"Is she happy?" he asked.

"I hope so," Red said quietly. Almost solemnly.

The disconnected call sounded a moment later in his ear and he hung up his phone. Now he had to make the call to tell Cooper if he received this call or wait until more information comes in. The little mason jar was staring at him, begging to be used. He poured a small amount of the white liquid into the jar and put it up to his nose. As soon as it hit his tongue, he coughed. Its was strangely awful but delicious all at the same time. He sat back against the couch cushion, looking out the window and contemplating his choices.

* * *

L'Ambroisie in the Place Des Vosges was admittedly not Liz's first choice of restaurants. He had told her it might take a few attempts for the food to be to her liking and she was skeptical of the place since he made the suggestion. Because of this, he opted for the private dining area that was simpler both in decor and pressure. Rather than a dining room full of people there are two tables, simple white china with finely crafted silver, and a crystal chandelier hangs above the tables decorated with a white linen table cloth. The fabrics she saw were beautiful and the chairs were both plush and lush as well as elegant. The marble floor was polished so much, she could see her reflection and both her heels and Red's soft sole shoes tapped a rhythm as they walked to their table. Their private table had a simple silver vase of yellow roses in the center of the table and that was it as far as decorations. It set the bar to one she could reach, she thought, as this was technically their first date since venturing into the gray area they find themselves in now. When she was handed the menu she sighed and Red smirked. She'd have to rely on his ordering because he not only spoke French but he could read it, too.

He ordered a white wine this time around-she didn't catch the name because all the French words sounded the same to her. But it was light and crisp. Fruity but not so much a Riesling fruity but more like an afterthought of apple and pear. He had told her there would be five mini-courses and she nodded. She opened her menu to pretend like she would be ordering for herself and she caught a few familiar French terms but otherwise looked to keep herself busy.

She liked the gougères-light, flaky, slightly crispy yet soft pillows of cheesy hollow baked dough. She briefly wished for some kind of sauce to dip them in but realized perhaps dipping food into things was really American of her.

Since they had the room to themselves, Red seemed to be more open and more himself than he would have been in the other two dining areas.

"How much is this costing you?" she asked as she twirls the stem of her wine glass.

"At a certain point money doesn't become an issue," he tells her. "I can give you the world, Lizzie. All you would have to do is ask. But it's not so much money as who you know."

"Of course you know someone," she laughs. When does he not know someone.

"The chef and I go way back," Red nodded. "He has wanted me to dine here with a woman besides Luli for years. Funny how each time we dine, she always comes up."

Liz gave him a brief smile and he sighed into his wine.

"What?" she asked.

"I thought it was customary to not talk about relationships of the opposite sex on a date," Red told her.

"If we were to follow custom, I think the world might collapse into itself," Liz told him. She took a sip of her own wine glass. "The only one who is off limits is... you know."

He nodded as she shrugged; he knew quite well.

Red ordered her a butternut squash soup for a starter while he had a broccoli and white truffle scallops. She frowned at the smell of the whipped garnish and the nuttiness of whatever cheese they had whipped into a cream garnish. But the soup itself was all right. He offered to let her try his but the idea of scallops turned her stomach. She could handle some fish but shrimp, scallops, and oysters were out of the question.

To add to his fish finding mission, it seemed like to her, he ordered some kind of caviar for the next mini-course. He had told her that she wouldn't like anything in this course so he had only ordered something for himself while she finished her soup and stole his leftover gougères. She was sure at this point he'd definitely have to gargle a whole bottle of mouthwash before she ever kissed him again. He chuckled as if he read her mind as he spooned the black caviar onto a cracker.

"No. Remember, I tried your fertilized duck egg," she said as his brow rose in an unspoken question of whether she wanted to try the caviar. "Yes, I threw up on your shoes but I didn't complain and that was probably the most disgusting thing I have ever tried. I won't be trying any more eggs of yours."

He shook his head and laughed wholeheartedly at the memory. Even Dembe had to exit the room from watching her try that hell. It's a wonder how she trusts him to order her food when he's done that awful thing to her.

Their main course was small as well. He ordered her some kind of lamb while he went with the lobster with rosemarin. She did try his, just the smallest of bites and shook her head. She mentally added lobster to the list of textures she didn't enjoy. He smiled and laughed, claiming more for him. In return, she gave him a piece of hers and he commented the cilantro based sauce really made the flavor stand out in the piece of meat. She couldn't help but agree.

She really got behind the pre-dessert sorbet that was supposed to clean the palate. It was pear sorbet with two dark chocolate triangles. She just wished there was more than a spoonful of this because she would have gladly eaten it all night. At the dessert course, he ordered another glass of wine while she ate the chocolate torte with bourbon vanilla ice cream and a vanilla syrup sugar glaze. It wasn't a heavy torte like she expected. Rather, it was more a soufflé and the dark chocolate seemed to melt on her tongue as she tried to make it last. The vanilla ice cream was intense-far more vanilla tasting than that of any American version of vanilla ice cream. Red shifted the vase out of the way and zeroed in on her dessert.

"I've never had dessert here," he tells her.

"You mean you never steal off anyone else's plate?" she asked.

"Luli was never really a dessert sort of person; preferred tea to a nightcap or chocolate and the like. And I am rather fond of my fingers and Dembe really likes to hoard his dessert all to himself."

"She liked that yogurt place," she countered.

He nodded in defeat. She did indeed like the tart frozen yogurt. That type of dessert wasn't too sweet for her otherwise absent sweet tooth. And she was trying to at least have something in common with Liz. But he'd save that tidbit for later.

"This is absolutely divine. I think we should really try another dessert. Dembe really likes those petit fours and whatever the combination is," he continues. He scoops more of the sugar glaze and watches as she looks at him when he stuck his tongue out to clean off his spoon of the glaze.

She let him have the rest, not much left, but he seemed to enjoy the few bites she did leave.

The chef greets them as Red asks the waiter to gather their coats. He has Liz stand up and turn and she doesn't fail to notice Red watches with a careful eye. He kisses her cheeks and calls her beautiful in a thick French accent as he tells her it in English. As he lets her sit back down in her seat, Red stands and greets the man. They speak in French, she catches a few words but she assumes they speak of both business and pleasure.

"I know how much Dembe likes the petit fours, the chocolate truffles, and madelines here," the chef says as he switches from French to English. "I noticed your lady only had the cake so I have given you a bit of everything to eat perhaps later, no."

"Merci, Marcel," Red nods.

"Anything for a beautiful woman," the man laughs.

Red looks at her as he laughs along. He's got that look in his eye again and in a flash its gone.

They walk back to their hotel on the riverfront just a few blocks away from the Place Des Vosges. They walk side by side for a block, shoulders brushing and she notices in her peripheral he tends to look at her as opposed to watching where he's going. When they stop at a corner and wait for the traffic to clear, she slips her hand in his. He doesn't look at her but his palm is warm and familiar against hers and he's the one that tightens the hold on her fingers.

He drops her hand when they enter the suite and takes her coat. She watches as he places their coats in the small closet and he places his fedora on the rack just above the coats. She proceeds him into the main room and a note tells them Dembe's been kind enough to take Hudson out for the nightly walk already. And as it's already one o'clock in the morning he would have certainly been jumping to go outside.

"I had a nice time," she said.

He chuckled and shook his head. He stared down at the two little takeout boxes in his hands.

"Still hungry?" he asked.

She bit her lip and he waved her to the couch. She smirked as he sat down and began to disassemble one of the takeout boxes. Soon enough four petit fours and four chocolate truffles stared up at them.

"Ladies first," he told her.

She looked at the various desserts at her selection and picked the small strawberry torte with four mini strawberries in what smelled like grand marnier. She bit half of it, taking two strawberries and half the torte for herself and used her fingers to keep the other two strawberries from falling into her lap and onto the dress Red had just bought her. The orange liqueur really made the strawberries stand out in the dessert and the torte wasn't overly dry like ones she had tasted in corner shops back in DC. She motioned for him to take the other half and he shook his head.

"Dembe's not going to share with you," she pointed out. "And this is really quite good."

She expected the fact she'd have to put it in his mouth since the torte was too small to really take without it getting everywhere but he really didn't have to go and scrape his teeth along her fingers as she placed it in his mouth. To get back at him, she placed her digits in her mouth, licking the sticky sweetness off her thumb and forefinger.

They traded back and forth between the eclair, the dark chocolate madeline, and the vanilla bean madeline. They each took two of the truffles and she closed her eyes in sweet relief when the silky smooth, runny chocolate hit her tongue. She thought she perhaps might have tasted a bit of the grand marnier in the truffle, too.

She watches as he makes sure his fingers are clean of any dessert before he undos his vest and releases his tie from around his neck ever so slightly. When he completes the task, his arm goes around the back of the couch and she doesn't miss his thumb brushing against her shoulder where the sleeve of her dress drops off and he meets soft skin.

"We'll make sure to go there again so the chef can personalize a menu style for you," Red tells her as he turns back to face her.

"I'll try and get used to the idea of fancy foods," she smiles when a small smile appears in the corner of his lips.

"We'll visit holes in the wall, too," he assures her.

"Thank you," she nods. She was afraid it would always be fine dining when he takes her to extravagant, romantic cities around the world. But then she remembers he's very versatile and likes fancy as well as little non-touristy places. When she yawned, covering her mouth at the last minute, he suggested she head to bed.

He walked her down the hall on the left-the bigger room, he had told her-and she paused just outside the doorframe. She turned and looked at him, catching his eyes and then dropped to his mouth-watching as his lips parted absentmindedly at the scrutiny. She watched him move inches forwards and he captured her lips, his fingers nestling in the hair at the nape of her neck and pressing close. A moment later, he pulled away and her fingers went to her lips.

"Goodnight, Lizzie," he says with a single nod.

"'Night, Red," she whispers back.

He watches as she makes sure Hudson is in her room before she closes the door. He's too wired to sleep so he unties his tie, leaves it hanging off his collar and goes back down the hall to the main room. He sheds his suit jacket and vest before he sits. He thinks about calling Dembe but the man has a long day ahead tomorrow and thinks perhaps a game of solo chess is in order.

* * *

Harold Cooper never realized how much he depended on Raymond Reddington's intel until they tried to take down their first blacklister without his help. They were mere minutes late, according to the commander of the take down team. Meera Malik's connections were excellent but Reddington always seemed to have connections everywhere in the matter of minutes where Malik's took days which he figured may cost them the occasional lead on the blacklister.

In regards to his missing agent and Reddington, he had turned the other cheek when Malik had told him that hypothetically if one was to reach out their connection and ask for a simple picture of Raymond Reddington, they might actually get somewhere with their limbo status with Elizabeth Keen. He had agreed that hypothetically he would authorize this. Realistically, the young agent and the Concierge of Crime were giving him migraines.

* * *

Dembe has gone for the night after dinner for three. This time it was a relatively low key place but that didn't mean they all hadn't dressed nicely. Dembe's own hotel room was always two doors down from Red's own. Tonight they had changed hotels-he never sleeps in the same place more than two nights in a row, after all-and he's booked the usual double room for them and Dembe's own single room. It's been only two weeks of this and she wonders how many five star hotels there are in Paris. Or are they leaving soon to another destination? She doesn't know at this point. She's not even sure if he does. Hudson's already down for the count by the time they decide to retire for the night. Almost as if he can sense her apprehension, he pauses in his steps as they get closer to the door that leads to her bedroom. She turns to face him and she can see him trying to glimpse at her thoughts before she voices them.

"Is this how it's going to be every night?" She asked. He tips his head forward silently asking her to continue so he can better understand what she's meaning. "Wining and dining? Being flown city to city on a whim? Fancy clothes and tailors always double checking the fit of your suits and seamstresses always wanting to let in rather than let out on all of mine?"

"Don't be silly, Lizzie," he jests. "We'll have to let Roderick sleep sometimes."

She wants to laugh but somehow her thoughts derail the laughter.

"I don't really know what I'm doing here," she says honestly. "Don't get me wrong; I like the idea but... I just..."

Their eyes connected as she trails off and he could see she desperately wanted answers to questions lingering in her mind. He nods and she can see his jaw clench ever so slightly before he begins to speak.

"I love you," he says.

"What?" She responds quickly; without thinking.

"I love you," he pauses after each word. He needs to make sure she gets what he's saying so perhaps the third times the charm. He moves closer, his hands going to both her shoulders. He cups them in his hands and he can feel the tense weight of lingering questions defeating her. His hands slope down to her clavicle and his fingers flit across the soft skin underneath them. The square necklines she often prefers shows off one of his favorite parts about her. His calloused fingers-from years of manual labor and early days of boot camp of assembling and disassembling various weaponry-have remarkable powers to render her speechless. He never misses the way she shudders ever so slightly, how her breathing hitches and the little tendons in her neck clench and release as his touch runs across the skin underneath them. He trails his fingers up, barely touching the skin of her neck, running his fingers across her jaw and then he cups her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing her cheeks; her eyes dart from his eyes to his mouth and back again.

"I love you Lizzie; that is why you're here. That is why I wine you and dine you, and buy you nice things. It's in hopes that you'll return just the slightest of affections for me. I know you couldn't possibly love me but perhaps you have grown to at least like me or care about me."

She looks down, her eyes catching the tie at his neck. Its loose and the collar button as well as the first button is undone allowing for a brief glimpse of skin. As she stares at the ruby red tie that matches perfectly with her dress, she replays his words in her mind.

"You see... this is the part where you're supposed to say something poetically romantic like _I care about you_ or _you smell good_. Or perhaps even tell me you want to go back home and forget all of this has come to pass."

Instead, she stays silent. Still stuck in the in-between.

He nods and tips his head. As she looks up, he looks defeated. His hands drop from her face with a brushing of fingers against her jaw and he turns to leave.

"Raymond," she calls out. Her voice is strangely rough and deep and she's never really heard this tone from herself before. It's the first time she's used his name since the plane trip to Paris exactly one month ago. He pauses for the sheer surprise of her calling his real name out as opposed to the 'Red' she's so fond of.

"You smell good," she tries to smile.

She laughs. It's an absurd statement to make but it is true. She doesn't quite know if she loves him yet but she's certainly fond of him. And she certainly doesn't want whatever it is that they're doing to suddenly be fraught with awkwardness and tension just because she didn't say anything. She knows that he knows she's not ready to make the sort of confession he did. But some part of her must know that's how it will end up or why else did she change her mind in the first place.

His eyes give him away. The green is brighter; and he actually holds her gaze perhaps in part to see if she's lying or simply giving him a placating answer to his confession. So, she holds her own in their little staring contest in the hallway next to her bedroom. She doesn't know why she's so conflicted; why she's questioning everything. Perhaps it's because she's unconsciously comparing her relationship with him to her former relationship with Tom. Logically, she knows it is different in every way. Realistically, she can't help it. The biggest one was perhaps what brought her questions out tonight: it's been a month and he has yet to take her to his bed. With Tom it has happened the third date. With Red, they wine and dine and she considers it a date if Dembe chooses not to go; they take Hudson out for a walk in the darkening night sky with her on his arm and Hudson's lead in his hand; he often touches her like she will disappear in a flash before his eyes; and he walks her to her bedroom door every night, hands skimming her waist and pressing her back against the door until she's breathless and wanting. But then he pulls back and slowly opens his eyes, whispering his good nights and sweet dreams. And maybe he's waiting for her to make the first move, she realizes.

She can see him moving back towards her at her confession and she watches his lips. As his face inches closer, almost in slow motion, she tilts her head and closes her eyes. His lips brush against hers once, twice, not kissing her but simply making the briefest of contact. She opens her eyes slightly to find his closed and his hands are poised halfway in the air to touch her but he's pausing for some reason she'll probably never know. His lips are parted ever so slightly and she reaches out and her hands steady themselves at his waist as she leans in. Her eyes close as she finally presses their lips together in more than a simple brush pass and she lingers, lost in the softness of his lips. Wordlessly, his lips part a little more as she presses tightly against him in the middle of the hallway and she thinks kissing Raymond Reddington is quite intoxicating. She tastes the lingering scotch still on his tongue as he finished it off just as he proceeded to walk her back here. He tastes oaky with a touch of cinnamon and she explores for the first time. Usually it is him that is kissing her. But tonight their roles have changed and she thinks perhaps he likes the role reversal. The almost silent hum he makes as she pulls away, the way he follows her unconsciously as she pulls away, suggests he's feared her rejection.

Her tongue darts out and wets her bottom lip as he opens his eyes slowly. He smiles and he gets this little tic under his eye and her own lips curve into a smile.

"Goodnight, Raymond," she says quietly. His really name sounds awkward on her tongue and it will no doubt take some getting used to. But she's quite willing to try out his name.

"Goodnight, Lizzie," he whispers back.

She opens her door and nods once and shuts the door. She leans against it and lingers. She hears him let out a deep breath and he gives an almost silent chuckle as he chastises himself. She hears his footsteps walk back down the hall until they've all but disappeared.

Perhaps now that she's initiated something he will be more sure of himself around her in regards to their relationship.

* * *

The Palias Garnier was grander than she imagined. It was just the two of them in the place after a late night dinner. He bribed a security guard-she pretended not to see the envelope exchange hands and the man made himself scarce.

She had been wined and dined inside the theatre's own restaurant-L'Opera Restaurant. She had to stop herself from giggling as she noticed everything was red-the chairs, the mood lighting, the curtains. As they waited, his arm wrapped around her waist and brought her close. She leaned in close and her cheek brushed against his own as she spoke in his ear.

"I think we might have stepped inside your dream restaurant," she laughed.

She felt more than heard his chuckled response. Standing so close, she felt the little rumble and felt his hands shift on her lower back.

Since this place was know for drinks over wine selection, she was pleasantly surprised to see the return of the aviation cocktail for both of them. She preferred this restaurant to L'Ambroisie in terms of food but she did like the quiet, natural light of the former.

"There's no plays tonight," he said after dinner had been finished. She was staring at the entrance as he looked at his watch. "But I could get us in."

He knew she had a special affinity for the theatre. She had heard this was a beautiful place and she had always wanted to see Phantom here. But she never had the time nor money.

When he leads her to the middle of the room, the only thing she can really do is turn in place and marvel at what is in front of her. She touches the grand staircase, the marble cool against her warm skin. It send shivers up her spine. Or perhaps it's the man at her back, his palm pressing close and inching higher as he leans in. His nose graces the shell of her ear and she leans back into him unconsciously.

"It reminds me of Beauty and the Beast. The ballroom dancing scene," he whispers. "Addy was gone by the time that movie came out but Dembe's nieces do like their Disney princesses."

She was about to turn, tell him they could just go back to the hotel but he propelled her up the first set of stairs. He nodded and his hand ghosted down her back and returned to his side. He nodded to the second staircase and smiled.

"Indulge me," he said.

She looked at him and noticed how he watched her every move. She took a deep breath as she climbed to the top and looked at the view from this angle. This was by far her favorite place. Not the Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, or any other major tourist attraction but this single opera house. The one that draws in the theatre nerds and those obsessed with art and architecture history.

When she finally walked down the staircase, he held his hand out for her to take as she reached the final steps. She took it and his pressed his lips to the back of her hand and rewarded her with a smile.

"Shall we?" He asked as he nodded to the next staircase that descended to the grand foyer.

She bowed her head and descended the last stair, wrapping her arm around his as they walked to the middle of the staircase. She looked up at the mural above them, certain Red wouldn't let her trip and injure herself. When they were at the main level again, he tipped his hat and she laughed and gave him a half sort of curtsey.

He met her in the middle, his hand moved to unbutton her coat and slipped between the layer, taking her by the waist and folding her hand in his other one. Her own arm wrapped around him and she wished he just had his vest on so she could loop a finger through the back and keep herself steady. But of course he wore a coat and suit jacket. A laugh bubbled up from her as he did a clumsy sort of waltz with her tripping as she tried to follow his lead.

"We're going to have to work on your waltzing, Lizzie," he whispers against her ear. "Don't watch our feet, just feel."

She pressed closer and her cheek brushed with his. She heard the soft sigh escape his lips as his unshaven cheek met her soft skin. Her lips grazed his skin as she turned her head and she watched him close his eyes but he continued to step in a rhythm without breaking stride. She also certainly didn't miss the hand on the small of her back tighten before loosening once more.

She had so many questions and not enough answers. But at this moment, she was lost in the feeling. The rest of the world seemed to drop away as they danced quietly in the darkened room. If only it was always this simple, she thought as she closed her own eyes.

* * *

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

I added a chapter after seeing The Cyprus Agency. Which is why the chapter took so long to get out to you guys. Hopefully you like it. I'm sorry I haven't gotten back to all your reviews; but know I appreciate the feedback.

PS. harrietspecterwrites tumblr is where all my fics and stuff will be so as not to clutter up my other tumblr. So, if you want a lighting fic, prompt me, etc, head over there. okay. that's all for now. go read!

* * *

Laurence Dechambou was beautiful. Much more so in person than what The Courier had snapped of her all those years ago. Where Liz felt drained and exhausted after years of chasing blacklisters, Dechambou looked not a day older than when she had last been seen. And if that wasn't enough, she was hanging onto Red as though she belonged there. She looked like it-hair perfectly coifed, sharply dressed and matching coat hanging over her free arm. Meanwhile, she and Dembe were across the room from Dechambou and Red as he discussed something with the woman.

"Do you know what she's doing back here?" Liz asked Dembe as they stared at one of the paintings the placard said was from the post-modernist movement. It was too geometric for her taste. Too bright and cheery. Too much yellow.

"She has most likely landed herself in trouble," Dembe told her. "He likes it when she owes him favors."

"Oh," Liz nodded.

"Not what you are thinking, Liz," Dembe said as he moved along as Red and Dechambou moved from the painting they had been standing in front of as they spoke.

"If you say so," she tells him. She remembers Red's suggestion to Ressler that to get information out of Dechambou he could just bend her over any surface and slap her on the ass. And then she remembers that he told her she didn't want to know how he was going to get Seth's location out of the woman if Harold released her. Logically, the favor would most likely be in the favors she didn't want to imagine let alone talk about with Dembe.

"She has turned into an intelligence asset," Dembe says, breaking through her thoughts. "She was a very high placed intelligence officer when Raymond first became who he is now. She still has many contacts in the intelligence field. If Raymond is to keep you safe, he needs assets with well-placed information connections."

"This is about me?" Liz asked.

Dembe only looked straight ahead. He has already said enough.

They kept walking as Red and Dechambou moved between paintings and rooms until they were once again at the entrance. Liz reached into her coat and pulled out her gloves as she knew they'd be going back outside again. It was unseasonably cold October day in Paris. At least, she thought so. It was almost Washingtonian in chilly wind gusts and overcast gray skies.

"Raymond has not enjoyed meeting with Dechambou since their meeting here all those years ago," he said. "All the years I have known Raymond, most of them he has spent talking about you to Luli and I and protecting you from afar. Now that he does not have the FBI's help in protecting you, he must go outside to his own assets."

As if Red heard them talking about him, he and Dechambou ceased walking near a quieter area outside of the Louvre and he waved them over.

She placed her hand in the crook of Dembe's elbow as they walked over to the two. She felt Laurence Dechambou's overt gaze as she looked between the woman and Red.

"She looks like a cop," Dechambou says.

Red laughs and shakes his head.

"She does, doesn't she," Red quips. He holds out his hand to Liz and Dembe drops his arm to his side as Liz slides her gloved hand into Red's own.

"Is this a set up?" Dechambou asks. "Is French Intelligence or Interpol arresting me as soon as I step out of this area?"

"If they are, the order didn't come from me," Red says. "I would think you trust me enough to keep you outside a prison. Especially if I am going to get an IOU for helping you, Laurence."

"They could come from her," Dechambou says as she looks at Liz.

"Laurence, be careful of who you accuse," Red warned.

"She looks like a cop. What else am I supposed to think? What are you even doing here?" she asks.

"She's never been to Paris," Red says as he looks at her. His grin is cocky and he pulls her closer. One of her gloved hands holds the lapel of his coat to keep her steady. "What do you need us to do? Kiss in front of you? I'm sure you'd like that. Perhaps that's what gets you off these days."

Liz makes a noise in the back of her throat low enough for only Red to hear and he snickers at himself.

"Okay," Dechambou says as if he were serious.

He looks to the woman and sees the stance she's taken. She obviously believes he won't do it. Sadly, she's in for it because what she doesn't know is he'll take any available opportunity to showcase his feelings Lizzie. He rather enjoys kissing her and finds public displays of affection rather charming when it comes to the woman currently by his side.

He looked her in the eyes and asked permission before he did anything. She knew she conveyed hesitant permission as soon as he captured her lips. His fedora knocked against her forehead as she was unprepared for him but quickly tilted her head and he claimed her mouth with a seemingly hungry urgency. Her lips parted almost instantly as his tongue darted across her lips an sought permission to enter. He titled his head the same way she did and she laughed as he could only briefly press his lips against hers. He reclaimed her mouth as the arm that wrapped around her waist moved and his hand pressed into the small of her back to press her closer. Her hands were clutched onto either side of his coat as she tilted her head ever so slightly so his Borsalino didn't keep knocking her forehead. When she smiled against his lips, he broke it off. He opened his eyes slowly and licked his lips slowly, breathing in deeply as his gaze turned from her to Dechambou.

"Satisfied?" he asked as he tilted his head. "She may look like a cop, but she's certainly on my side."

Brown eyes sought her own and her brows rose in question. She has no idea what is happening but apparently their display was enough for Dechambou to believe whatever Red had told her.

"Fine," the woman said as she crossed her arms. "Help me get out of the country and I will owe you."

"We have a deal," Red nodded. He tilted his head and Liz felt a brief touch of the brim brush her hair. "Dembe will contact you in a day or two. We have some more business to finish elsewhere."

The three of them watched as Laurence Dechambou disappeared from their sight into the throngs of tourists and commoners alike. Before she could look down at the cobblestone beneath her feet, Red titled her chin up to look at him.

"I know that was reaching," he began. "She was quite curious about you and wasn't sure what to make of you. Despite your new life on the lam, you do seem like a cop, still. Not that I mind."

She bit the inside of her lip as she thought about it.

"This was all to protect me?" she asks.

"Yes," he answers quickly and succinctly.

"Okay," she nods.

"Okay?" he asks quite unsure of himself.

"Let's just go get Hudson for his walk and you and Dembe can work. I think I'll go exploring."

His smile was enough for her as he turned and nodded to Dembe.

He really liked to mess with her feelings and she needed a quiet space to think.

* * *

He sighed as he looked up at the massive church in front of him. When he returned from his dealings with Dembe for Laurence Dechambou's new life, Lizzie had simply left a note that she had gone to a sanctuary and she'd be back. Just as Hudson circled his legs in greeting, Dembe knocked on the door and his face lit up with withheld information. After passing the note, Red sighed and asked Dembe to watch Hudson. He had to go find a sanctuary.

Norte Dame was a sanctuary. It was fitting he found her here for both what he wanted to discuss with her and she knew he often found solace in having his conversations in secrecy, wrapped in the shadows. When he opened the door and his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he found her sitting in a pew looking towards the eastern section of the church. Funny how he could always seem to pick her out in the crowd. It was dark inside; the sun was beginning to set outside and he could see it through the stained glass above them. The blue glass behind the ornate alter was a dim blue as the lights surrounding the paintings cast an orange glow. It was fire and ice in this sanctuary. It wasn't overly crowded but there were still a lot of people there for a Tuesday. He took his hat off and watched the blue tile at his feet as he made his way over to her form.

She had her eyes closed, her fingers running against her scar as she ran through her thoughts. There were a few people milling around but somehow she knew the steps behind her were Red's. She had left a few seats open beside her in the pew and felt when he sat beside her. She opened her eyes to find him opening his mouth to work his jaw, licking his lips, and turning his face towards the stained glass windows to the north and east of their seat.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he asked as he looked at the alter once more.

"Yeah," she nodded. She had never seen anything else like it.

"That most terrible church of the most glorious Virgin Mary, mother of God, deservedly shines out, like the sun among stars," he said as he turned his head to face her. "Jean de Jandun once said that about this place."

Her fingers stopped running across the raised scar on her wrist when he took her wrist. His own fingers traced the scar at her palm as he took her hand in his own.

"You think more people would be here with it being close to Halloween," he said.

Her brows furrowed and her lips pursed in confusion as she looked at him.

"They come to church for Halloween?" she asked.

"No," he shook his head. "Perhaps they want to prepare for All Saints Day. Halloween here isn't like in the States. Though, it is becoming more and more popular with the younger generations."

"Foreign exchange students getting the spirit of Halloween message around?" she joked.

"Something like that," he nodded. "Speaking of messages, Dembe's received a message from one of my couriers. He wants a meeting in London."

The first thing she thinks about when he says London is Meera's accent, her stories about being deep cover there. It seems too coincidental.

"A set up?" she asks.

"Most likely," he nods. He gets a little tic in his jaw and she looks up at him. "If anything, it's Agent Malik who is in charge of the meet."

At least they are on the same wavelength when it comes to this. But then, they've always been able to communicate without leaps in thinking. If anything, in the beginning, she was taking hops not leaps to try and think like him rather than the linear FBI way. She had to if she wanted to keep up with him and have him be proud of her.

"A take down?" she wonders.

"Probably just want a picture of you," he shakes his head. "They're most likely trying to get definitive proof you are with me to ascertain whether or not you've been compromised."

She lets out a little breathy laugh and puts her head down to stare at their entwined fingers. She wonders what constitutes as compromised in the FBI's books.

"You and Hudson can stay here. It should only be a day trip at most. I don't think they'll do a take down due to the mess Interpol finds itself in these days but I don't want to chance it if you don't want to. France has much stricter guidelines compared to London."

"I've never been to London either," she points out.

"I know," he nodded.

She licked her lips and watched the few rays of sunlight filter in through the glass.

"Let me think about it?" she asked.

He nods and is drawn to the way her free hand flits across their entwined one.

"What were you thinking about?" He asked.

"The team," she said after a moment of quiet stillness.

"You miss them?" Red asked. Although by his tone, it seemed like he already knew the answer to the question.

She shrugged and slumped a little in the pew. She moved their hands from their sides to her lap. Her other hand traced the down his fingers that held her own. The action seemed to calm her as much as rubbing her scar did.

"I guess I miss being a part of the team. I was getting comfortable with them, you know? Ressler and I got along well. He certainly saved my life a few times over. We were friends, kind of." She wasn't really sure what constituted a friend these days. She worked too long of hours to have a life outside work. Perhaps it was just her who had thought her colleagues could be thought of as friends. "Amir also saved my life, with Garrick. And Meera and I probably could have been good friends if you didn't keep her away so often doing your dirty work."

He frowned and his lips pursed.

"Lizzie, do you want to go back?" he asked.

"Sometimes I think about it and then think about the fact I'm probably wanted for going with you. Cooper barely put up with me when I wasn't the go between. He'll certainly want nothing to do with me now that he thinks I'm compromised."

It wasn't a definitive answer but he didn't really expect anything less than that.

He turned back to watching the slowly setting sun make the orange light glow brighter around them. He let out a soft sigh as her shoulder brushed his and her head bumped against his own as she got lost in her own thoughts again.

* * *

It didn't happen too often but he was a fairly fantastic cook. She was a disaster in the kitchen-she knew it and told him as much-so she was reduced to a glass of wine and curling up with Hudson as Dembe and Red cooked meals in their hotel suite that was more like a penthouse.

After a taxi drive and short walk back to the hotel from Norte Dame with her on his arm, he declared himself too exhausted to go out and suggested eating in. She knew it was for her benefit. He wasn't ashamed of being seen with her in everyday wear-she had changed into after meeting with Laurence Dechambou-it was simply a case of he knew she wasn't in the right frame of mind. She had to make too many decisions and there wasn't enough time to really process it.

"Should be ready in twenty minutes," he said as he moved gracefully from the kitchen to the cushion opposite her on the couch. She looked over at him and noticed between coming back from the church and now he had shed his suit jacket, tie, vest, and a few buttons had been undone on his dress shirt. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows and he heaved a quiet sigh as he sat.

"Where's Dembe?" she asked noticing he hadn't come out from the kitchen yet.

"Trying his hand at dessert," he noted. He sipped at his wine and closed his eyes. He felt more than saw Hudson place his muzzle on his knee and his free hand ran through the fur on the top of the dog's head.

"We need to get you groomed, Hudson," he told the dog as if he could answer back.

She noticed he was more apt to using plurals over singular nouns these days. But if she thought back to early on, he had always used them even in front of Ressler, Malik, and Cooper. Back then she had assumed he was talking about the team as the 'we' when really it always turned out to be the two of them.

The filets were cooked perfectly as was the mushroom and red wine reduction. Somehow although she's always seemed rather averse to asparagus, he always seems to order the perfect side dish or make his own delicious version. She also likes that he prefers the thin asparagus to the wide stalk. Somehow it tastes better when they are the same size as a whole green bean stalk. Dembe's chocolate obsession was almost equivalent to her own sweet tooth. Three small, simple chocolate molten lava cakes were dusted with powered sugar and had fresh raspberries sitting atop the cake. She had told Dembe between bites of the cake this was her favorite dessert and he shouldn't make it again because she was going to get fat from eating all of this rich food. He had laughed and shook his head. She hated to leave him to the dishes but he insisted he finish the dishes so she and Red didn't have a mess to come back to after taking Hudson for his nightly walk.

They walked to the Seine River. She certainly hadn't meant to walk more than a few blocks but her feet kept moving and Red simply directed her with her arm in one hand and Hudson's lead in the other. The autumn season was more noticeable here with the trees turning brown and the grass although green wasn't like in the pictures as they walked down the avenue parallel to the river.

"Love, even in its humblest beginnings, is a striking example of how little reality means to us," he says as they walk down a little winding sidewalk between the Avenue des Champs-Élysées and Avenue Gabriel.

"Who said that?" she asks.

He points to the little path's markings and notices a familiar author's name.

"Marcel Proust," she says aloud.

"_In Search of Lost Times_," he notes. "Of course many take his words out of context, there's a million and a half of them just in the volumes alone. Hallmark certainly loves to use Proust without the context."

"Do you believe that?" she asks. Of course she knows that he knows she doesn't mean the bit about Hallmark but the bit about love in its humble beginnings. He's at least been in love with someone that hadn't deceived him. Meanwhile, everything she had ever known about love turned out to be a lie.

The tic in his cheek is the only thing that provides her an answer. And even then it isn't even definitive. The walk back is silent but not uncomfortably so. She wraps her arm around his own and walks closer to him in an effort to stay warm. And when they arrive back to the hotel room, Dembe is nowhere to be found-gone back to his own room, most likely-with all the dishes stacked neatly on the drying rack next to the sink.

She leaves for her room in an effort to get comfortable clothes on while he lets Hudson off his lead and sheds his own few layers he had put on after dinner. She comes back in the room with an oversized sweatshirt and yoga pants on and one of the blankets tucked up on her shoulders. She leans against the entryway as she sees him sitting in the corner of the couch seemingly oblivious to the world as he does a crossword.

It was strangely peaceful to watch Raymond Reddington be domestic and still. She had only really seen this side a handful of times and she felt it was rather appealing to her. She wondered if he enjoyed the quiet downtime as well. Or if his life on the run seemed to suck the domestic life aspect out of him and he enjoyed the thrill of the chase more. He kept coming back, though. Whenever he and Dembe left on an excursion with just a note next to the coffeepot, he had always come back and shared most details of whatever they had done. Sometimes it was shopping, sometimes he met with a contact or a courier who was in town. There's this sort of recklessness he's brought since he stepped into her life. One that led her to runaway with him and she still doesn't know what really compelled her to do so. She misses her team terribly but she has sort of this team with Red ever since that day she started trading his secrets for hers in the quiet of safe houses and shoddy apartments that housed swiped paintings and enough money to fund his own personal war. She doesn't quite know if she'll ever really get used to the idea of being on the run for the rest of her life but she's slowly reaching the point of no return. It's probably why she sought out the church-their unspoken sanctuary where they were free to discuss without wire tapping and free to pose as parishioners.

He looks up as if he can feel her stare and her thoughts and beckons her over. She curls into his side rather than the opposite arm of the couch and tucks her head on his shoulder. The blanket droops and he fixes it around his side and most of her before turning back to his task without a word.

She thinks she has it made up in her mind what she really wants but that always seems to change when he touches her with the small, fleeting touches. He's the flame and she's the moth, in this situation. And she wonders if she gets too close if he'll burn bright enough and hot enough to end her or spark out to save her. He's proved time and time again that he will do whatever necessary to keep her alive. But she doesn't know the real Raymond Reddington that Dembe seems to know. She wants more; she craves the knowledge more than she craves the teamwork she's left behind.

* * *

Hotel Le Bristol had an excellent pet care staff, or so they claim. Red hadn't wanted Hudson to come with them since he didn't find the appeal in staying overnight in London. She wasn't sure who missed each other the most: Hudson, Dembe, or Red. She guessed she would find out when they returned that night.

They were currently in the air, almost to London when she finally spoke to him.

"What am I doing?" she asked.

Red looked up from his book with questions written all over his face.

"At your meeting," she continued.

"You've made your decision then?" he asked.

"I have," she nodded.

He nodded and stared at her. She felt his eyes roaming her features, assessing her certainty.

"Fine," he nodded. "We can do lunch."

"What?" She asked.

"Dembe will be there for security, as usual," he said as he looked to the front of the plane where Dembe sat. "You can be there to keep me company."

"Why can't I do more?" She wondered.

"We're just having lunch with him, Lizzie. I doubt he'll have much for me other than to tell me he had no choice but to turn on me," Red said. He smiled as she pouted a little. "Don't worry, Lizzie. I'm sure you'll eventually be by my side for more than lunch."

When they arrived in London she didn't know where to look first. She found herself wanting to take it all in all at once as they drove to their hotel. To her, it seemed suspicious the hotel room was already booked in one of Red's aliases. But then again, he clearly knew it was a set up and he probably found this normal.

"The room will most likely be bugged," he told her as they stepped onto the elevator. "Which is why we will be heading back after dinner."

Obviously they were to make more than just a lunch trip out of the exchange. The hotel-St. Pancras Renaissance London Hotel-looked like a cathedral or something that should have been in the coffee table books of pictures of what old world charm was supposed to look like. The salmon colored outside with the blue-green-gray rooftop and cone-shaped spires gave it a sort of romantic feel. It was as gothic inside as it was outside despite the modernization of the new hotel, the old world still found a way to creep in. From the dark spiral staircases and the tall, narrow corridors, the gothic revival was still a key piece of architecture. The hotel room, at least the one Red had been booked in for the day was more of an apartment than a hotel room. Then again, she came to expect it now from his choice of hotels in DC and in Paris.

She looked around the room and looked behind her as he stepped up and put a hand on her shoulder, directing her towards a corner near the television.

"There's a camera," he whispered. "Most likely a listening device as well."

He didn't have to tell her to be careful with what she said. Although they could never use the tap against them, it was still protocol to not give secrets out when someone else was listening.

Elizabeth Keen got the first taste and experience of the real Concierge of Crime. Of course she had seen him work his title when he was under the deal he had with the FBI but this somehow seemed more sinister? Perhaps because it was her first taste of being on the other side of the law. She sighed as she placed the Borsalino atop her head. The brim was wide enough to shade her face and she had remembered Red's advice: it has to have a great angle, a nice cut, and the brim must be wide enough to provide shade or what's the point of wearing a hat?

Dembe had driven them to Côte, just a few blocks away from the hotel. She didn't miss the supposedly inconspicuous unmarked passenger vans outside the bistro a block away.

"Does the FBI surveillance look that bad?" she asks as she leans into him when he takes her hand and helps her out of the car.

"Some," he nods with a chuckle.

He took her arm and directed her towards the entrance to the bistro. He held open the door and looked around for his contact. They were early. And he remembered that his contact was often late. Claiming a table with their backs to the wall and their eyes on the door he shrugged out of his coat.

"Where's your contact?" She asked as she shimmied out of her coat and folded half of it behind her on the chair and watched as he did the same before they both sat down.

"Most likely getting coaching tips from whichever letter agency employs him now," Red nodded.

She watched out of the corner of her eye as he watched her as she looked at the menu in her hands.

A waiter came to them and asked their drink order. He ordered a teapot and a white tea of some sort. As the man vanished to put in the order, she noticed Red staring.

"What?" She asked.

"You look quite fetching in my hat, you know," he told her.

Her hand automatically went to her head and felt the felt hat covering her head. He wore one of the same, a different ribbon on his.

A lazy yet cocky smile appeared on his lips and she ducked her head swiftly.

He liked it best when she was embarrassed, he thinks. The little blush spreading across her cheeks. She never looked more beautiful or kissable, for that matter.

"I don't have to use you to understand this menu, you know," she pointed out. She was clearly avoiding any hint of his compliment.

He chuckled and leaned back in the chair. He watched her watch the entrance whenever someone walked past the large windows.

"He's harmless, Lizzie," he said as he spoke of his contact. "He's merely the courier of the exchange."

"Having experience with The Courier was more than enough to make me somewhat skeptical they're all as innocent as they look," she said as she emphasized the title of Tommy Phelps.

"That courier is dead, remember," he noted.

She hummed and he watched the waiter bring their pot of tea and two cups.

Before she could ask another question, he was standing up and holding out a hand motioning to the other side of the table. She stood automatically following his lead.

"Marty," Red nodded.

"Red," the man nodded. "Who's this?"

"Elizabeth," Red supplied as they all sat.

Liz not so subtly assessed the man in front of her. He was skinny but seemingly built. His strawberry blond hair almost turning a yellow-orange stood out as he sat without a cap on in the chilled October air. Of course it wasn't too cold to be outside, a hat did help conserve a bit of heat.

"Luli's replacement?" the man asked. "I noticed Dembe in the corner."

Red's laugh startled her out of her reverie. But she didn't let it show to the man across from her. Red's arm once again moved to the back of her chair and she briefly smiled at the man across the table.

"Luli could never be replaced, Marty. No, she's a jack of all trades," Red said as he turned his head and grinned at Liz.

She returned the smile as she looked at him but then turned back to her assessment.

"She looks like a cop," Marty said as he looked over at Liz.

"I keep telling her that. She doesn't listen," Red laughs as he shakes his head at her.

"Shall we order? I'm famished," Red says as he leans back in his chair and puts a hand over his stomach.

Red ordered the soup of the day and the coq au vin; she ordered the risotto and would wait for a second course as a dessert option; Marty ordered the warm roquefort salad and the spinach and mushroom crèpes. While they waited, Red fixed tea for the two of them while Marty ordered a glass of wine. He added two sugar cubes to Liz's tea and passed it to her as he added one cube to his own.

"Are you sure you're not a cop?" Marty asked Liz.

Her only response was to take a sip of her tea. It was sweet and warmed her insides. Something she desperately needed even if she preferred coffee to tea. She briefly wished she should have joined Dembe. Perhaps then she'd at least get an espresso.

Their meals came and before she finished, Liz placed her order for her dessert. If Dembe's looked like the one she was getting, she was going to have a hard time keeping Red away from it.

"I'd, uh, I'd like to talk… in private," Marty said as he looked around the room and back to Liz.

"Whatever you have to say to me, you can say in front of Lizzie," he said. "Think of her as a lawyer. Whatever you say is privileged information she can't share."

Marty tapped his fingers on the tabletop and leaned in. She and Red couldn't help but lean in as well.

"I'm sorry, Red," he whispered. "I didn't want to do it but they got me up on all these charges."

"What do they want?" Red asked as he worked his jaw once and stared the man down.

"They just want pictures of you," he shrugged. "They really want pictures of her. You missing?"

"Of sorts," Red nodded.

"They've got your hotel room bugged, they have people in the neighboring hotel. I stopped them from wiring me, claiming you'd kill me before I had a chance to even talk if you found a wire," Marty trailed off.

"Thank you, Marty," Red nodded.

"You know I'm good Red," he says.

"Thank you, Marty," Red repeats himself. He leans in towards her as he watches the man stand. Red made no motion to stand or even shake the man's hand. As he started pulling out bills, Red put his hand up.

"I've got it," Red tells him.

They watched his contact leave as the dark chocolate pot with crème fraîche was brought out.

It was progress that he was able to share the spoon. It also gave the person most likely watching them a nice roll of pictures.

"Are you going to kill him?" she asks as Dembe moves from his table to the seat Marty vacated.

"No," Red shrugged as he took the spoon from her fingers. The spoon tapped against his lips as he thought on the reason and she watched his lips. "He's a small fish. I'm sure the Egyptians would get to him first if he ratted on anyone."

She took the spoon back and he chuckled as she took her own spoonfuls.

"I don't kill all of my associates, Lizzie. Just the ones that betray my organization," he tells her.

* * *

She was beside him as he played solo chess when Dembe walked into the room with Hudson in tow. She was doing one of his crosswords, their shoulders brushing and Red's cheek pressing against her own when he leaned over and helped her with the answers between chess moves. Truthfully, he was being a nuisance and took pleasure in distracting her from thinking about the solutions. His nose occasionally brushed against her ear as he whispered the wrong words to the puzzle.

Dembe looked at the scene before him and hid the smile on his face but not in his tone as he greeted them. However, he did come with information for them.

"Raymond," he said. "Agent Ressler is in Liz's house."

"Cameras?" He asked as he looked to Dembe.

Dembe passed the iPad to Red and Liz looked over his shoulder to find her once-partner looking around her kitchen.

Dembe handed Red a phone and she watched him work his jaw as he assessed what the younger agent was doing.

"Let me talk to him," she said. She didn't know where it came from. But obviously Red had resigned himself to the fact and didn't seem phased by the statement.  
He handed her the phone and gave her no explicit instructions. After all, she knew what she should and shouldn't reveal.

She wanted privacy and knew Red would respect that. She motioned for the bedroom with her head. She pressed a hand to his shoulder and vanished.

Instead of looking at Red's safe houses, he turned to Elizabeth Keen's own house. The house looked as if it was still being lived in as he picked the lock. When he closed the door he noticed a black hat on the hat and coat rack, a red measure mark sticking out of the ribbon that lined hat just before the brim. It must be a warning to whoever tried to make their way into Keen's house because he knew Reddington sure as hell wouldn't just leave any hat by itself unless it was a sign.

He went through the rooms but didn't snoop through the drawers too much on account he didn't think he'd find anything new or a lead. He wasn't sure what he was doing here, if he was completely honest with himself.

As soon as he began to look around in the kitchen and saw nothing out of place and his phone began to ring, he knew who it was.

"What do you want?" he asked. He knew it would be Reddington. Meera and Aram were doing their own thing and Cooper knew he was out looking for safe houses.

"What do you want to know?" she asked.

"Liz?" he asked.

He heard a little breathy laugh just barley distinguishable. She must have taken the phone away from her mouth.

"Don't be mad at me," she sighed at last.

Ressler frowned and sat at the barstool at her counter.

"Im not mad," he tried. "I'm…"

"Confused," she finished as he trailed off.

"Yeah," he nodded. Which was dumb, he reminded himself. She wasn't here to see him nod.

"What do you want to know?" she repeated.

"How?" he asked.

This time her laugh rang in his ears. It was light and breezy against the heavy question.

"I got on a plane and picked a destination," she said.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"You know I can't tell you that," she whispered.

"Why?" he wondered.

He could almost see it in his mind, her smile dropping from her face as the silence continued. He knew she knew he wasn't asking why she couldn't tell him where she was but rather why she chose Reddington.

"Your guess is as good as mine. I still don't know," she said finally.

"Keen, no one flies to wherever the hell you are on a whim with one of the FBI's most wanted because they don't know what they're doing," he told her.

When he received no answer, he knew he had to continue.

"Do you have feelings for this guy?"

"I… could," she started. "I could love him, in time, I think. I hardly know him other than his files and the past that the letter agencies have written up on him."

He sighed. Loud enough for her not to miss it.

"Buy the whole book before you make the decision, Liz," he tells her.

"Please, don't be mad," Liz says. "I know you know think I've been a traitor all along but something happened. I... I can't describe it."

"Stockholm Syndrome?" he wonders.

She laughs.

"No," she says. "He's not keeping me captive. If anything, he's worried about me being with him and becoming compromised."

"Liz," Ressler says finally after the line crackles and skips. "Cooper's looking for you."

"I know," she tells him. "I know."

"At least keep me in the loop?" he asks. "Not all the time. But... you know?"

She licks her lips and bows her head.

"I don't want to compromise you," she says. "You could be aiding and abetting if they know you even made this conversation and didn't report it."

"Keep me in the loop and I won't come after Reddington," he jokes.

He laughs a little. And she can sense the conversation is winding down.

He once wanted to capture Reddington because he thought this man was a dishonor and disgrace to his country. But the longer he worked on the blacklist, the more he changed his mind. They were never close and he rarely trusted Liz in the beginning but he learned to trust her and she trusted Reddington. So, obviously she knew something he did not.

"When I can," she finally promises.

"Okay," he nods to himself. "Stay safe, Liz."

"You, too," she whispers.

She hung up the burner phone and closed her eyes as one of his arms wrapped around her waist and the other around the hand that held the phone.

"How much did you hear?" she asked as she leaned against the railing.

"Not much," he told her as he looked down to the street and the view past the buildings surrounding them.

"He's going to compromise himself," she whispers.

"Donald knows how to stay above our gray line, Lizzie," he tells her.

"You don't think he's going to go to Cooper?" she asks as she turns in his arms.

She looks at his face, assessing what he won't tell her aloud. His green eyes tell her what she doesn't want to know and what she needs to know all at the same time.

"I'm not the only one who has a soft spot for you, Elizabeth Keen," he tells her. The smile on his face is sad and happy at the same time. He has her affection while another man thousands of miles away willingly compromises himself because he calls her a friend and perhaps even grew to like her as something more. His fingers trace her collarbone and she closes her eyes. But just as faint as it feels, it disappears.

"I need to go," she tells him. She opens her eyes and watches his fall to the space between them. She quickly amends her statement. "I just need to be alone. To think."

"At least take Hudson?" he asks.

Her fingers skim his jaw and her lips touch his for the briefest of moments.

He watches as Hudson is happily put on his lead. He doesn't miss when she wraps his scarf around her neck nor the fedora return to its new home on her head. His fingers twitch against his leg and she opens the hotel room door and looks back at him once before the door shuts.

* * *

She's spent hours in the little park where Marcel Proust has his own tiny street named after him. She just sits on the park bench and stares at the people milling back and forth without really watching.

When she does return, she knocks on the door because she forgot the key to the hotel and she's not sure she can even get the key in the lock because she's perhaps stayed out too long watching the occasional teenager run around in costume around her.

"Lizzie," he whispered. By his tone, he half expected her not to come back. As if she would run back and leave him without a word. He unhooks Hudson's collar and the dog zones in for his food and water bowls in the kitchen.

Suddenly, she's reaching for him and he's warm all over where her nose seems to be half frozen and she's sniffling trying to adjust to the new temperature. There's not many lights on despite the dwindling hour. If she wasn't so chilled perhaps she'd reflect on it, add it to her ever growing and shifting profile of Raymond Reddington. He's got his fedora on a hat rack, his scarf joins it and he is lightly undoing the buttons of her coat when she finally snaps back to reality.

"Are you hungry?" he asks as he pulls her coat open.

"No," she chatters. "Just a little chilly."

He opens his mouth to ask a question or perhaps make a statement but his eyes convey much more than his words can ever say. He's glad she's back and she steps forward as soon as he places her coat back on the hanger.

She leaned in and pressed her lips to his own. She nipped at his lower lip completely on accident-she's not sure she can really feel her lips as they get used to the warm room again-but he made a whimpering sound in the back of his throat and she took that as a sign she shouldn't break off and apologize for what had just happened. He was pulling back from her so she lifted her arm, her hand passing over her shoulder and skimming the nape of his neck. One of his arms wrapped around her waist and then pressed her closer when she refused to allow him to break away. Her touch was fleeting at his jawline as she cupped the back of his head and scratched with her nails at the closely cropped hair and he bumped into the doorknob of the closet. One of his hands shot behind him to steady himself and hers followed, brushing along his waist and reaching down. Her hand brushed along his backside, steadying at his waistband at the small of his back. His hand fumbled at the door and she released their lips so he could look at her.

As she did so, he looked at her with a multitude of questions lingering in his eyes.

She always knew it had to be her choice. She had to come to him. He had already confessed his feelings, his wants, his desires. She was the one who remained uncertain and ambivalent yet willing to respond if he started it. Yet he drew the line. Unnoticeable to her at first. And then she had kissed him in the hall. And that's when things began to change a bit: his touch lingered more, his eyes always watching her form. She could feel the heat of his gaze even if she wasn't looking.

"I choose this," she whispered. "I choose you."

With the whispered consent he carefully leads her just down the hall and opens the door to his room. It was much like her own room just down the hall. But somehow seemed more inviting. She ignored the room as he kissed her once more.

His touch was contagious. He was seemingly everywhere and nowhere at once. She laughed against his skin as he attempted to unzip her dress as he kissed down her throat. Everywhere he seemed to touch burned as if her blood was boiling underneath her skin despite the actual chilled extremities.

As he works his way exposing both her skin to the warmed air of the bedroom and his hot mouth, she can't help the shiver that runs down her spine and unconsciously moves through her. Her chilled hands slowly but surely unbutton his dress shirt and fumble with his pants. It's certainly not the most romantic escapade but she's pleasing him enough he lets her know with each nip of her exposed skin as he moves her to the bed in the middle of the room.

She thinks that maybe she longs for the security of his touch, anxious about her decision. But it is a decision and she's made it and she's not regretting any moment. When she begins to worry her lip with anticipation once all garments are free and they are quite literally exposed to one another, he kisses her so soft she thinks he thinks she may be a dream or an apparition. They break eye contact once or twice only to find a steady, sure rhythm and Red's fingers are quite busy touching everything and nothing all at once.

"Please," she whispers against the shell of his ear as he adjusts himself above her.

Red lowers his own lips and brushes his cheek against her own as he whispers his love for her. The pooling heat in her belly suddenly is too much and she's never been loud or one for theatrics but he can feel her and hears the quiet cry from her lips. And that's enough for him, kissing her thoroughly as he's desperate for more contact with any part of her as his own wave of pleasure crashes over him.

She wasn't sure if she was in love with him as much as he was with her at this point but she couldn't run and hide anymore.

She was falling for Raymond Reddington.

* * *

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you to all of those who have read and reviewed. I do appreciate the reviews.

* * *

He was sleeping peacefully as she curled in close to him. One of her arms was thrown about his middle, fingers curled into the sheet that covered them. As she lay her head between his shoulder and collar bone, listening to his heart beating rhythmically underneath her, his fingers curled into her hair. She awoke automatically; still not used to the relative quiet of the suite in the quiet morning of the outskirts of Paris. She peeked over him and then reminded herself there was no clock in the room save for Red's watch-a watch that was situated on the nightstand across from her. She leaned up and over him, and his hand dropping from her hair woke him from his slumber. She read the time, squinting to make sure she read it right, and sighed as she moved back across him to her side of the bed.

He stopped her as she made to escape his bed. As she lifted up on one arm, resting her upper body against his own, he dragged his fingers through her hair. He leans back further into his pillow, radiating comfort and laziness in one fell swoop.

"Good morning," he tells her.

"We should get up," she responds.

He hums. She thinks he hums in the negative, and brushes one of his fingers against the shell of her ear as he drags his fingers through her hair again.

"Why?" he asks.

"Because Dembe will be back soon," she tries to counter. "I should go; go back to my own room and get dressed."

"I don't think he'll mind," Red tells her. "In fact, he might think his work here is done."

Before she can think of a counterclaim he has claimed her mouth with his own. His fingers brush the nape of her neck and she sighs into the kiss. Its not the most romantic nor the most appealing of kisses she's ever received from him but there is something there that keeps her occupied. Her own hand gets lost in the fray of his limbs as he rolls her back over so he's settled half atop her now. Her fingers graze his scalp and purrs as if he's a domestic cat getting a thorough scratching. He moves his exploration from her mouth to her neck. The long lines and pale skin begs to be nipped by him as he trails his way down her body in an effort to make her forget she wanted to leave his bed in the first place.

When he fishes the sheets from around her, she knows she's lost all hope of winning their pseudo argument. He told her last night that unlike film and television it gets rather stifling when one has sheets surrounding them as they try to please their partner. She thinks he also might get his kicks from seeing her expression as he explores every inch of her. The grin he gives her as he makes his way down the bed, kissing, sucking, nibbling any exposed flesh, makes her certain this is going to become a new morning routine-and one she should get used to having.

True to form, Dembe knocks in two succinct knocks and Red sighs. She laughs and tucks the sheets around her.

"He did take Hudson for his morning run," she noted.

Typically, she and Red took the morning and evening strolls with Hudson and left afternoon ones to Dembe. But Dembe had lost at chess and the man had to take all the walks save the evening ones with Hudson this week. And this morning-day one of the bet-she had finally figured out why Red and been pleased to win the bet.

He slipped into his sleep pants and his robe before he walked back to her side. She was looking up at him with a small smile playing on her lips.

"We're meeting the contact today. We can all do lunch. We'll even bring Hudson. Surely he likes snow."

"He's like a little kid, can't get enough of it," she confesses.

He presses his lips to her forehead and she sighs as she watches him leave the room. She's sure she should at least take a shower if they're to meet their contact but he had left her half wanting and has always finished what he started. And she was sure if his look was anything to go by, he wasn't quite finished with her yet.

* * *

Meera Malik has always had a great deal of respect for Raymond Reddington after he helped her out of more than one set of sticky situations. But he was technically and always will be a traitor for selling classified information so she can't help the fact that Cooper demanded-off the books, of course- that she ask her contacts to look for Reddington, and she had found him in London. Of course she told the man to come clean to Reddington and perhaps wanting just a picture of the meeting would spare the life of the contact. After all, no one really lived to tell about crossing Reddington, except for maybe her. But even then, she was innocent in the double agent/mole dealings. The fact that he had spared her was the only reason why she had sat on this information for a month. She's sure that Cooper would have wanted the information right away but she wanted to make sure Reddington and Keen had left the area for sure before she had turned the information in. She just hoped one of the three of the "fugitives" had figured out the set up.

"Sir," she said as she knocked on Harold Cooper's door.

"Come in," he nodded.

"I think you're going to want to see this," she told him. She handed over the single piece of paper in her hand, a single picture.

Harold Cooper rubbed at his brow as he set the picture down in front of him. He now had definitive proof his agent was with Reddington. Of course all her access codes had been revoked the moment she disappeared and he had a hunch as to who she disappeared with. But now he had to go to the committee and figure out what the hell he was going to do now.

"I did a digital analysis, the full works. It hasn't been doctored or anything. They're meeting one of Reddington's Egyptian contacts. There's little chatter on that side because few on our side have gotten in since the civil wars there but I'm trying to see where they are going. Probably somewhere without an extradition treaty if Liz has joined in."

"Thank you," he nodded. "Do not inform Ressler or anyone else about this development. I'll alert them when I know what to do."

"Got it," Meera nodded.

As he stared at the picture, he wondered what signs he had missed and when they had gotten this close. His agent looked quite comfortable in the arms of the man she once seemed to despise. But then, was all of that just an act? Reddington had always known more than what Keen's background checks had said. Her father had been a career criminal and the FBI had missed that simple piece of information. He started to feel his migraine returning.

* * *

When she awoke to a cool set of sheets beside her, she knew she had overslept and slept hard that night. She had obviously stolen the sheets since an extra blanket was where he usually slept and she seemed to be wrapped in most of them in a tangled heap. The morning sun was streaming through the curtains as she leaned down over his side of the bed and slipped on his dress shirt she had carelessly tossed on the floor last night. As she slipped out of the bed and to the bureau to find some undergarments to wear, he walked into the room and paused.

"Morning," he greeted.

"Morning," she parroted. She looked over at him and noticed he was still in his robe and his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he took her in. Obviously he wasn't planning on doing much today. Whenever he had the glasses on, she knew it would be a quiet day. She rubbed at her temples as she held her undergarments in her hand and he watched her carefully.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Headache," she noted. "I'll be fine after a shower."

He nodded and she felt his stare until she disappeared from his view. He didn't miss the fact she left the lights off in the bathroom, letting the whispered streams of natural light come in and light the room instead.

She thought the reasons for her migraines might have been the changes she's made: the time zones, the altitudes, the food, and lack of sleep. They weren't debilitating, just came on and off as she occasionally watched television, read a book, or when she was trying to fall asleep. But after more than two full months in the Parisian city she was more than accustomed to the time and altitude.

And then her fruit she ate for breakfast started to taste strange, almost fishy. When she tried switching to other foods-buttered toast, croissants, danishes-they began to smell and taste fishy as well. Then her water started to taste like fish. She didn't even want to think about the smell. It's like a raw filet of salmon followed her everywhere she went. Just thinking about the foods themselves made her want to heave.

She had asked Dembe and Red at separate times if they tasted or smelled same thing but neither could taste the fishy aftertaste. Red was quiet after the line of questioning; Dembe seemed amused and concerned at the same time.

Then, as soon as it started, it stopped. Her food and water were back to normal and she thought nothing of it.

Another quiet night in the suite had found her watching the television as she lay on the couch. She was half dozing when Red with Hudson in tow, came back into the room. She had felt queasy all day which was why he had walked Hudson alone tonight.

"What can I do?" he asked as he looked down at her.

Hudson looked ready to jump on top of her on the couch but refrained as Red told him no.

"Sit with me?" she asks. Her voice is quiet, meek. As if asking would make her want him sit in the single chair Dembe preferred to use.

He nodded and he pointed to the room as he went and changed his clothes and readied himself for bed. When he came back into the room, she sat up on the couch. When he sat and made himself comfortable, she moved back down and rested her head in his lap. His hand moved to her hair and began to massage her scalp. It felt like heaven. She closed her eyes and breathes him in. The scent of the cold December night still lingered as did his faint aftershave. Somehow the two smells calmed her queasy stomach and she sighed.

"Did you eat?" he asked quietly.

"God, no," she whispered.

"On our walk we got some crackers," he said as he watched the news she had on. "When you're up for it."

"I'm not up for much," she told him.

His free hand rubbed her shoulder and she grabbed his hand with her own. She tucked his arm beneath her own and clasped his hand in the both of hers. His knuckles brushed her lips as she brought their clasped hands to her lips and he closed his own eyes.

He simply focuses on feeling the tension leave her body as he continues to rub his fingers gently across her head and the back of her neck.

When he hears the familiar breathing pattern and her fingers slack on the hold of his hand, he knows she's succumbed to sleep. He's going to have a pain in his neck as he stays like this, but he doesn't want to wake her.

When they were out to breakfast on the rare day she was up before him, she asked for ice in her water. Which was strange because she had gotten used to no ice water anywhere. But then she started using the ice water to chew on the ice. Red had told her he once read a study where chewing ice was a sign of iron deficiency. And then he told her she looked a little more exhausted than usual these days and suggests she eats some oatmeal like he does. Dembe had chuckled as she frowned and turned to face him rather than the man at her side.

But the fishy smell and taste was back a few weeks later and she sighed. When Red and Dembe went out to play chess in the outdoor gardens-before he was stuck inside again-she stole his iPad he rarely used and began to search the web. As she got further and further into her research she felt more and more peakish. She erased the cookies and browsing history from the past hour and put it back in his tightly packed duffle bag. She really needed to get out and get some fresh air. Calling for Hudson, she slipped on one of her coats and met the two downstairs in the gardens.

Red looked at her as she came out over the top of his rose-colored glasses and nodded to Dembe.

They were just outside in the park a little ways away from the airport. After three months, they were leaving France and headed to the unknown. As they walked and talked of where they should head next, Red said he'd buy a globe and make her spin it and stick her finger on a location and they'd go there. When she didn't laugh, like he thought she would, he looked over to Dembe. The other man shrugged and suggested they go to the park.

Red feigns interest in the newspaper he had yet to read as they pass by a stand and Liz takes the opportunity to continue on with Dembe. She's tied up for a brief moment as Hudson refuses to leave Red's side. Red simply waves for the leash and promises to buy the dog a treat and tells them to continue on; he'll catch up eventually.

They head into the park and disappear from his vantage point at the cart.

"Can we sit?" she asks.

Dembe nods and directs her to a more secluded area. It's away from Red-who has finally joined them in the park-but they can still see him as he enjoys his espresso and newspaper in the chilled sunshine. She can't help but smile as Hudson lies beside Red's chair, ever the furry friend to the otherwise lonely man. He waits for her to start; looking at her as she looks over at Red. She turns and begins.

"Have you…" she trails off and bites her lip. "Have you ever seen him with children?"

A brief smile comes to Dembe's lips and he nods.

"My nieces and nephews love Raymond," he tells her. "The whole village does. He saved them all. As did you, Elizabeth."

She frowns at the information that she saved people she had never met and he continues. She remembers Red telling her about Dembe's nieces briefly, a few months ago, but thought nothing of it until now.

"The Eberhardt Cartel would snatch children from the streets of my village. In my day, they took girls and boys. Floriana was the one to change it to only girls and young women. When we sent news of Floriana's death and the destruction of the Eberhardt Cartel to my people, there were many gifts sent, parties, a fireworks display at the end of the week. They pray for you and Raymond, in my village; they give thanks to the people who stopped their nightmares. My nieces and nephews no longer have to fear being taken."

Her eyes water and she sniffs a few times, blaming it on the changing weather-one day it snows the next its mild and sunny. She rubs at her nose and clears her throat as she speaks.

"You have family?" she asks. Of course everyone has a family, she chastised herself. Well, not her; not really. Suddenly she's learning quite a bit about Dembe.

"Five brothers and sisters make for a medium sized family in my village," he nods. "But I do not have a wife or children, if that is what you ask. This job is too dangerous for a wife or child."

Liz nods. She does have to agree with his point.

"He does not speak of his past to me but I can sense a deep regret within him about what happened to his family," Dembe tells her quietly. "He destroyed the house he raised his daughter in. Too many memories of what happened there."

A sense of dread hit her and she turned pale.

"Are you okay, Elizabeth?" Dembe asked. He stayed in his seat and kept his hands to himself because he didn't want to alert the man he knew was watching despite being meters away and feigning nonchalance.

"I wish I knew," she sighed.

"Raymond and I must meet a contact later this afternoon to create false flight plans. There is a chemist two blocks away from the hotel. I can leave you bills rather than use his card."

She nods and reaches across the small table to place her hand on his forearm.

"Thank you, Dembe," she nods.

"I only hope you find answers you are looking for, Elizabeth," he says.

She gives him a half smile. She's not really sure what she's looking for. And as she looks over across the park, she's not sure about his reaction, one way or the other.

* * *

While Dembe and Red met their contact, Liz and Hudson roamed the streets near the hotel. It wasn't that she wasn't allowed out-she was-but she preferred to go out with Red or Dembe or both of them. They knew the city; Red knew the language. She wondered if he knew German. At least she'd be able to hold her own there. But then of course he probably did. He probably knew a little of each language out there.

From her high school French class, she remembers hints of the word for the little corner stores. She resorted to looking around in the windows to be sure though. She found the store and looked around for a tree or post to tie Hudson up. It suddenly felt like it was a bad idea to bring him to this outing but she needed something familiar around. When she looked a few doors down, a grooming store caught her attention. Hudson needed it. Looking down at the dog and not wanting to leave him outside for fear he'd make friends with everyone and he'd be taken, she made up her mind that he'd get groomed while she ducked into the pharmacy.

She didn't understand any of the French but the man seemed to take pity on her and speak English to her. She told the man she'd be back in a few minutes to wait for her dog since she apparently wasn't supposed to leave. The man agreed and Hudson was handed off, as well as Red's credit card, and she was off back down the street.

She entered the store and looked at the low aisles. Unlike the American stores that had shelves higher than a person's height, this little store seemed to think everyone was only five feet tall. It reminded her of 7/11's or any other gas station convenience store. At least it gave her the option of scanning the store for what she was looking for rather than going down aisle by aisle, looking like she would rob the place.

She quickly found what she was looking for and turned the boxes over, hoping for at least one to have directions in English. However, none did and she cursed her luck. She looked at the various ones and sighed. Going with the one that had two tests looked like her best option for the amount of money Dembe left her. Quickly purchasing the box, she made her way back down to the groomers again to wait for Hudson.

The bag felt like a lead weight as it sat on her lap. She rubbed at her scar with her thumb, hoping the familiar action would sooth her. It was far from soothing when she closed her eyes and remembers Red always seems to trail a finger down her wrist and trace the burn pattern. He makes it feel like a badge of honor rather than a dark memory. She clasps her hands together and slumps a little in her chair. But then she brings her clasped hands to her waist and she immediately sits up straight and fiddles with the paper bag instead. Just as soon as she thinks she's about to crack, Hudson and the man who she found was actually the groomer, come out from the back.

"Merci," she nods as she takes Hudson's lead from the man.

He bids her goodbye and she's suddenly less anxious.

She hides the bag in her room-the one Hudson uses to sleep in because he believes he deserves a little comfort and if his owner isn't using the bed, then he will. She doesn't know why Red insists on still booking a two room suite but she goes with it. Best not to question his logic, she thinks. She looks at herself in the mirror above the bureau and tries to smile but found she's too nervous to do anything but frown in worry. She goes into the bedroom where she and Red reside and fixes her hair and washes her face with cool water, hoping to put a bit of color back in her cheeks.

She wonders if Hudson senses her apprehension as he becomes a furry shadow to her. When she picks a book from Red's stack by the bedside and comes back to the living room and slumps into a corner of the couch, Hudson lets himself up. His head comes to rest on her stomach and she wants to cry, maybe. Instead she opens her book and pats his head before beginning to read. She finds the book utterly boring and sighs, tossing the book on the table beside her. She stretches out on the couch and Hudson stretches out, too. She rubs at his newly groomed fur and he seems to sigh happily. They both fall asleep soon enough.

She hears the door open sometime later and Red's voice rang out through the room as he speaks to Dembe before closing it. She watches sleepily as he moves towards her.

"Afternoon nap?" He asks with a small chuckle.

She hums and smiles as his eyes roam Hudson's form. He was taking up the rest of the couch she hadn't been taking up.

"Found a groomer then?" Red asks.

"We were bored," she said as she moved her hands over Hudson's newly groomed fur.

She watches as Red takes off his coat and suit jacket. He folds them over the single chair and tosses the fedora on the cushion. He turns back to the couch and notices Hudson hasn't moved an inch.

She smiles inwardly as he takes note of the scene before him. Hudson's refused to leave her side and doesn't even get up from the couch until Red tells him off.  
Red takes Hudson's place and sits beside her. She attempts to sit up but he waves her off and she goes back to being comfortable. He tilts his head and leans further into the couch. He unbuttons his vest and sighs. Her legs move up and over his and he places his hand on her denim clad thighs. His fingers traced a pattern of his own design around her knee.

"How was your day?" She asked.

"Fine," he sighed. He rubbed his forehead and looked over at her. "Have you decided where in the world you would like to travel to next? Anywhere in the world unless you say Morocco, India, or China because we've made flight patterns through those three countries. I believe they would think we're heading somewhere with no extradition treaty with the US."

"Why would we be doing that?" she asks. She feels a migraine coming on as she notices his jaw clench.

"I did get some interesting information out of the exchange," he tells her as if he's skipping over her question. "More than I usually get out of this particular contact."

"Oh?" She wondered. She rubs her temple as he removes her legs and gracefully slides out from under them.

He stands and pulls a piece of paper out of his jackets inner pocket and unfolded it. Turning back to the couch he shows her the paper.

"I told you I was going to make you famous, Lizzie," he said.

She took the piece of paper from his hands and looked down at it. She expected it, maybe. She did in the back of her mind at least. She frowned at the bottom of the paper: _Elizabeth Scott Keen, a former member of the US Federal Bureau of Investigation is wanted for aiding crimes against the government and home and abroad. Considered armed and extremely dangerous._ She was officially on the FBI's Most Wanted List.

"Do you think it was naïve of me to think it would be because I captured you and the rest of the wanted list rather than get on it myself?" she asked.

She traces the pictures of herself in her mind. She knows she's more recognizable than Red. If they're going to run, she has to tell him. Surely he'd want to know as opposed to keeping this secret. She hears his footfalls and looks up as he starts to vacate the area. Tossing the wanted poster on the table next to the abandoned book, she rises from the couch.

"You must leave," Red told her. He left the living room area and she quickly followed as he moved to the kitchen and showed her a file on the counter. "I have prepared a folder for you. It has evidence that you have never participated in any of my crimes; a letter from me to Harold; and a letter to my contact in justice. They will arrest you but they will take my word and let you go. They will remove you from the list."

"What? Why?" she asked. "Why must I leave?"

He got that look in his eyes again. The one she had now seen a lot but the one that first started after their very first "fight." The one she had seen outside Frederick Barnes's crime scene.

"This isn't right. You're not... yourself here. You deserve to be happy, Lizzie. This lifestyle... it is chipping away at you."

She looked up at him, blinking her eyes that were filled with unshed tears. She opened her mouth a few times to give him an answer, anything, but nothing came out.

Suddenly she laughed and it seemed hollow. He had rarely heard this laugh from her. He certainly never had it directed at his person before.

"I think I might be pregnant," she whispers.

His head whips to face hers and he's not sure if he heard it right.

"What?" He asked. His voice was shaky, nervous. His hands twitched at his side in a nervous tick.

She looked him in the eye this time. Her blue eyes met his green and she sighed. She held her gaze as she repeated her words.

"I think I might be pregnant."

He bit the inside of his lower lip and his hand grazed the countertop. His thumb twitched and he held his ground. Suddenly he wanted to rescind his offer but since it was on the table he couldn't take it back; wouldn't take it back. Perhaps if she left her life might be better and any potential child she may have would certainly have a better life without him. His first wife and child were proof of that much. Hell, he still had no concrete idea what happened to them. The long road to find that out would forever be his life's work.

Her hand gripped his forearm and he was suddenly sitting in one of the chairs by the window of the breakfast nook in their hotel room. She vanished from his side and returned a moment later with a bottle of water. Uncapping it, she thrust it into his hand and he drank it automatically. He looked up to find her brow furrowed with worry.

"Sorry," he whispered.

"I don't know what to do," she told him. "I... I have a test but I can't read the directions because they're all in French and..."

She trails off. She breathes in and stops herself before she starts to panic again.

"Where is it?" He asked.

She goes into the bedroom and pulls out the paper bag that was in a drawer of the bureau. She takes it out of the bag and flips it back and forth in her hands just to make sure there were no English directions. Satisfied it wasn't just her delusional, panicking mind, she returns to the kitchen and hands the box over to Red.  
He's composed himself in the few minutes she was gone. His suit vest is buttoned and tucked back in order, his tie straight under his vest, his sleeves and cuffs are rolled up in neat order.

She's quiet as he reads. She sits down in the chair next to him and stares at the table.

He chuckles suddenly and she looks up at him with a confused look on her face.

"It says it must be done in the morning," he says. He recites the French directions and then translates it word for word to her.

Her face falls and she laughs because she doesn't want to cry and leans down, putting her forehead on the table. The wood is cool against her flushed skin. She feels his hands move to her head and he runs his fingers through her hair, scratching at her scalp in all the right places. She turns toward him, her cheek now on the cool wood table and he's tilting his head in order to get the best view of her. One hand still rests on her head and he pulls his chair closer.

"I'm scared," she whispers. She didn't plan on this. They didn't plan on this. Certainly not this quick if she had lingering thoughts of children still from her failed adoption thoughts with Tom. If it was even a this. God. They now had to wait until the morning to figure it out.

"Me too," he told her honestly.

He stared at her for a while. She was sure he was starting to get a crick in his neck when he spoke again.

"If you wish to leave, I certainly won't stop you," he tells her. "I don't have the best track record keeping people I love alive."

Her head rises from the table-she's sure she has table marks on the side of her face but she feels like this conversation should be had when she's sitting up fully.

"I am not going to beg you to allow me the privilege of being with you," she said. She used his words against him. Maybe he half deserved it. A verbal slap in the face.

"My crimes will become your crimes," he reminded her again.

"My father was a career criminal," she told him. "Why not continue the family business."

"Don't," he said quickly. "Don't say that. Don't…you are not your father. This is not a family business."

"And if you're a father?" She asks. The _again_ was tacked on in both of their minds, but went unsaid.

"Then I will do everything in my power to keep the both of you safe," he tells her.

"I don't want to do this alone," she pleads. "We deserve a second chance, don't we?"

He thinks of his wife and his daughter. The time he did get to spend with them were some of the best moments of his life. His heart had been light and carefree, his spirit lifted, and the hard work of his Navy career was worth it each time he came home to find his daughter waiting on the porch to read to him or show him how good she was at bubbles and chalk. He hadn't known who his enemies were then and it had cost him his family. Now he had a backup plan just in case he ever died. The world would burn; cease to exist if his enemies touched him. After his revenge on Luli's death, he had included Lizzie into the deal. If she was indeed pregnant, their child must also be protected. The ones who had taken his first family would not take his second.

He nodded. His jaw locked as he opened his mouth to answer. He simply nodded again and bowed his head. His hand brushed against hers and he got up.

She tried to give him a reassuring smile but she fell short as he silently questioned her.

A few seconds later, she hears the hotel room door close.

Late that night, she had it made up in her mind that he wouldn't touch her let alone sleep in the same bed as her until whenever they knew the answer. But he defied her thoughts and as she lay in the bed listening to the city beneath the hotel room's slightly open french doors that led to the balcony overhang: he and Hudson came into the room. He looked over at her and moved to the en suite washroom as he readied himself for bed. The dog's collar jingled with each step and he patiently lies on the floor on Red's side as the man climbed into bed himself. He lies on his side and waited until she looked at him before speaking.

"You switched beds," he said quietly.

"I didn't think..." She trailed off.

"That I'd want you in my bed?" He finished.

Her eyes lower and he takes that as an affirmative answer.

"Lizzie, I will always want you. Never doubt that," he says.

She nods and quietly whispers her okay. Her voice is low but he still hears the crack in it. She tries to hide it but he catches the sniffle.

He wraps an arm around her middle and pulls her close. Her arm wraps loosely around him and he sighs into her hair as her cold nose touches his heated skin. His hand moves up and down in a rhythmic motion to put her at ease. It also relaxes him, the steady motion almost putting them both to sleep after an emotional afternoon.

"If we are," she whispers against his neck, her breath warm and comforting. "Would you make me stay at home?"

She feels his chin move as he attempts to pull away to look at her but she keeps herself slightly hidden from his all-knowing eyes.

"I think no one could ever keep you from doing what you want to do, Lizzie," he tells her. His hands moves from her shoulder and skims her arm until the end of her elbow where she holds him and he then moves to her back. "I, for one, would love paternity leave."

She laughs. Its quiet but he can feel the rumble against his skin, feels it as her body releases some of the tension it has.

"It's a dangerous world," he tells her. "You know the sort I deal with and of the top handful, only Anslo Garrick's blood has been spilled."

"Why did you want me to leave?" she asks.

She can feel him tense now. She runs her own fingers across his back and presses herself closer.

"Because I don't want to lose you, too." he says. "I've spent years waiting for you, Lizzie. You've been the only one who could ever see past all the masks and facades; the glitz and the glamor; the suits and the charades. I thought that maybe if you left you would be happier. Because despite what you hope and believe, I am still a monster. I will always do anything to protect you Lizzie. And now... a child? They have already taken one family away from me. I can't risk them taking you... taking another from me. I can't even properly protect you because I still have no idea what really happened to them."

She pulls back and notices when she tries to look at him, he looks away. He tries to cast himself in the shadows of the night and she won't have it.

"That's why I have to stay," she whispers. "You are quite redeeming when I'm around, you know."

"Unfortunately, you do make me want to appeal to your good side," he mumbles.

She presses her lips against his for the briefest of moments and shimmies back to rest in his arms again. But she turns so they spoon rather than lie face to face. She closes her eyes and hums as he nestles his chin on her shoulder; his fingers skim her shorts and she doesn't miss the fact his hand pauses and finds its resting place on her stomach. His fingers splay out and his pinkie dips below her waistband to secure his position. One of his legs tosses itself over her two and she sighs sleepily. One of her hands moves to rest next to the one that covers her stomach. She really does like it best when she's enveloped completely in his warmth; how he simply curls himself into her. He's a very tangible person and loves to touch her at any available opportunity-but especially here in the quiet, stillness of the bedroom. His thumb rubbing against her stomach is the only certain proof she has that he's not asleep yet, despite the emotionally exhaustive afternoon they've had.

"I'm going to hire another person for security," he tells her. Before she protest, he continues. "We will live quietly until it is safe but what I do for a living only makes our lives more dangerous if we aren't on alert. There are individuals, even factions, who want to kill me. I've toppled government, started wars. I'm a dangerous man. They call me the Concierge of Crime for a reason."

"Who?" she asks. The FBI must have tabs on the other three they didn't choose the first time around. So, he was left with very little options. She knew he didn't place a lot of trust in just anybody.

"You're not protesting?" He asked. His brow furrowed. He was sure she would take some offense to his suggested plan.

"I've read all your files; I had a correct profile of you one week into meeting each other. I know the blacklist is ultimately to find out and get revenge on what truly happened to your wife and daughter as well as take down the true criminals of the world. You wouldn't be you if you weren't overly careful this time around."

"Thank you, Lizzie," he says quietly.

She wants to point out that maybe it's all just in her head but she thinks she knows it isn't. She feels as if she's been having an out of body experience without even realizing it. And she thinks he knows its a real possibility by all the contingency plans he's had that seem far less off the cuff than she's really expected.

His thoughts kept him up until the wee hours of the morning. She fell asleep, finally, when he began to make soothing, rhythmic patters along her skin.

The next morning, she woke before him but as she got out of bed, trying to be silent, his hand stilled her as it settled on her wrist. He spoke in a whispered voice, reaching for the nightstand and slipping on his glasses and adjusting the black frames before he reads the directions once completely only to repeat it to her as they walk from the bed to the washroom.

He hands her the box and stands in the middle of the room as she tears at the box and pulls out one package. She catches his eye in the mirror and tears quietly into the packaging in her hands. When she has the stick in her hands, he stands there like some kind of idiot until she clears her throat.

"Right," he shakes his head as he comes back to himself and turns to head just outside the door, closing it as he steps away from the threshold.

He stood outside the door as she peed on the stick. He listened to the water from the taps as she washed her hand. The door then opened and she walked out, wringing her hands.

He moves in and brushes past her into the washroom, only making a half ass attempt at shutting the door. He looked to find the stick on a strip of toilet paper on the counter next to the toilet as he lifts the seat and releases a breath, pointedly ignoring the test in order to take care of his morning business. As he finishes washing his hands, he opens the door and finds she has her eyes glued his watch. He figures she must have taken it from the nightstand.

It was perhaps the longest few minutes of their lives. Her fingers grabbed for his as he cleared his throat, unable to speak that it was time. His fingers tightened his grip on hers and he felt her gain just a bit more confidence as they walked towards the test. They peered at the stick and then he grabbed the box and he read the results directions aloud.

She bit her lip and turned towards him.

"So," she said. Her voice was horse from lack of use and perhaps emotion.

"I think it's time to show you our house," he says. "Hudson will absolutely adore it. Open spaces, gentle slopes of green grass, bushes, and trees; and a little private beach just a few hundred meters away."

She can't help but laugh as she tries to appeal to the dog that isn't even in the room with him.

"Perhaps you and the baby would like it, too," he notes.

He laughs nervously as she starts to cry and he wraps his arms around her. She wraps her arms around his torso and slumps against the warmth he radiates. In the early morning light streaming through the linen curtains in the bathroom, she never looked so beautiful.

Perhaps they'll hide out for however long until she has the baby. If there's one thing he does know for sure, its that Fitch and the rest of the blacklist have no idea where he resides when he wants to escape the everyday life he lives. But she knows he still needs to be vigilant and keep up appearances. So maybe it will just be her and Hudson and the new security occasionally while he and Dembe keep up their criminal enterprising.

"Where is this house?" She asks. She thinks he'd probably have it here in France or maybe Italy or even Germany. But his answer surprised her.

"Portugal," he says. He taps her on the nose and smiles. "Just wait until you see the light through the windows there."

* * *

He hadn't heard a thing from Keen or Reddington in a while. Which wasn't surprising but he found the silence to be unnerving. Cooper was clearly keeping him out of the loop on something and he couldn't tell what it was about. He could only assume it was something on Keen. As he climbed the few steps to his apartment building and unlocked the door, moving to his mailbox slot, he found a manilla envelope is stuffed in the small box. The red writing at the return address makes him suspect the mailer is familiar and the address is fake.

He walks on autopilot to his apartment, staring at the envelope and pointedly ignoring any other mail that happened to be in the box. When he reaches the kitchen counter, he sets the mail on the granite countertop and rips open the envelope. He opens it and a single picture is in the envelope.

He can't tell the location of where she is because the only thing in the background is massive green shrubbery. But if the return address is anything to go by, it's Paris. He smiles sadly at the picture when he notices she's got one of Red's hats on her head and most likely one of his scarfs wrapped around her neck. She has one hand on her hat and she's half looking up at the sky. Her free hand holds a dog leash and he can see the mess of fur in the bottom corner of the picture. He can tell by the ground it's snowing. Faintly, like a shadow, he can see Reddington behind her. Watching and seemingly unaware there is a camera pointed in his direction. Or perhaps he was too mesmerized by the sight of Keen to care if a camera was pointed at him. She seems happy with her life; he now has proof.

He's of course had proof she's been with him since the phone call. The first initial phone call with Reddington, really. But then she had called and promised to keep him in the loop. By him receiving this picture, it was a way of keeping him in the loop without totally compromising him with phone call logs. His thoughts drift to Cooper and his strange behavior. He knew the assistant director was looking for proof of Keen's involvement. He held the photo in his hand and tapped the edge on the counter once, twice, before he pulled out his phone.

As he made to dial Cooper, he set his phone down and ended the half-done attempt.

He promised Keen.

As he looked at the photo once more, he wondered why he doesn't feel like a traitor; why he doesn't feel bad about not turning any of it in.

* * *

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

Bit of a delay as I had a lot of personal stuff going on. Thanks for being patient. Hope this _long_ chapter makes up for the wait! It's a filler of sorts packed with so much Red/Lizzie I'm not sure you guys will like it. (& if you can't detect the sarcasm then you've misunderstood). If you go to the harrietspecterwrites tumblr, there will be pics of this villa to put into perspective that of which I have poorly described. It's once again back to spot where I was inspired by boston legal. haha. Okay, just keep scrolling and get to the real stuff you want to read (and review if you wish. they're always delightful for me to get).

* * *

His plane taxied to a private hanger in Montenegro, just outside Faro, and almost an hour away from their destination a few miles away from Praia de Galè in Albuferia, Portugal. He sat back in the plush seat as Roderick turned off the plane's engines and Dembe moved back and forth between the aisle, making sure that nothing would be left on the plane. Hudson trotted alongside, collar jingling as he ran down the stairs after the bodyguard. After all, Red figured they'd be there for a while so he gave Roderick some much needed vacation time. She woke from her nap and heard him sigh as he unbuckled the seatbelt and watched as he carefully put on his fedora and sunglasses. Although the later wasn't particularly needed, they were a staple in his wardrobe. She hadn't meant to fall asleep but being asleep was easier than holding the barf bag to her nose, sniffing the paper-y smell in an attempt to quell the slight sick feeling at the mild turbulence. He seemed comfortable enough, or at least he hadn't complained when she shifted in her seat and leaned against his side instead of the cool mahogany of the plane's paneling. He helped her out of her seat and held her forearm as they slowly descended the steps and made their way to the car. As Dembe carted the few pieces of luggage they had with them, Red opened her door and called for Hudson to hop into their car. She briefly wondered why and how Red's car was here waiting for them. But she was too tired and too queasy to think on the subject.

"I'm sorry," Red said as she touched the top of the car.

"Why?" She wondered.

"Unfortunately, the Portuguese, much like the Italians and Sicilians, prefer to make their roads quite winding," he told her.

He heard the sigh and tried not to smile at her discontent.

"I brought the bag from the plane, just in case," he said as a peace offering. "But perhaps another nap might help."

"I want to see what this place looks like," she tried.

"Lizzie," Red began. He sided up to her and placed his hands on her arm, caressing her skin with his slightly calloused but otherwise soft hands. "You look exhausted and quite frankly, ready to throw up."

"What every pregnant woman wants to hear," she sighs quietly.

"The sun is almost setting and Albuferia is best viewed in the mid-afternoon anyway," he shrugged. "I promise we won't go sight seeing tonight."

The sound of the trunk shutting brought them both back to the reality of the situation and Dembe looked over the top of the car to Red. She watched Red nod and bit her lip.

"Can I at least use your coat?" she asks.

The plane was too stuffy and she had taken it off mid-flight, right before her impromptu nap. She assumed Dembe now had it in the trunk and he had just shut the door and started the engine.

He nods and steps back to take off the garment as she gets into the car. She has her seatbelt buckled and looked up as he leans down and drapes his coat over her form.

"Thank you," she whispers.

He flashes her a little smile and shuts her door before stepping forward and getting into the passenger seat.

Her stomach seems to settle for the most part as she adjusts the coat around herself until she's comfortable and covered. She thinks its funny that the slight smell of his aftershave and the slight saltiness of his natural scent lingering on his coat settles the queasiness she's been plagued with. Perhaps the little thing growing inside her knows the scent of the one who he or she shares half a DNA sample with. She silently chuckles at the thought-how ridiculous-and leans back further into the seat.

By the time they clear the multiple checkpoints and exit the airport, she's asleep with her head leaning between the window and the seat back.

He flips the sun blocker and the mirror up when he is sure she's asleep and turns to face the view.

Dembe quietly drives the car and Red notices that every once in a while, his eyes drift to the rear view mirror and checks on the passenger in the back. He's quite thankful she has someone else-in addition to himself-that will look out for her.

The house-villa, really-was massive as she had expected. The villa was situated on a private road just off Rua dos Mareantes the closer one got to the ocean. She was awoken when they turned off from the smoothly paved road to that of the compacted dirt road. They had two neighbors with larger villas but what Red's lacked in size made up for in land. As Dembe pulled the car into the driveway, she noticed the house was surrounded with trees and tall privacy shrubs. She knew Red preferred his privacy but this was almost beautiful. The lush, almost forest like, density of trees on the left side of the driveway would make for an interesting and playful walk for Hudson. The other side of the driveway had the privacy shrubs in addition to a white stucco privacy wall with vines creeping alongside it. She wondered if he purposefully put the vines there or if they grew naturally. She figures the latter since he doesn't really seem like the gardening type. As she turned back to looking out the window across from her, it seemed Dembe had a house all to himself on the other side of the driveway. It was smaller than the villa but she was quite positive the guest house was bigger than her house in DC. As they pulled further into the driveway and entered the garage, she noticed her car was in the spot next to them. As she opened the door, shrugging Red's coat over her shoulders, and let Hudson out, she couldn't help but run her fingers along the top of her car. It seemed like ages since she had last seen the thing.

"Coming, Lizzie?" Red chuckled as he motioned to the door.

She nodded and stepped to his side once again.

The house from the outside looked as if it was only one level but she quickly changed her mind as she saw stairs sloping down on one side of her. But he took her the other way, into what she assumed was the main room. His shoes tapped a rhythm on the beautiful dark red-orange adobe floors. They were grouted in a deep brown color and sealed to a shiny, perfect quality. And as she walked into the main entrance level, her jaw dropped. The view of the crystal blue and green sea could be seen from every angle of the house. The lounge was expansive and sunken in the open space concept first level. The couches looked like white pillowed clouds of comfort and she smiled to herself as she noticed the small table in the corner with a beautiful chess board sitting, waiting to be played. There were a total of four french doors leading outside to the terrace alone in this room and outside the patio-with not one but two tables and a high two-seater table with equally tall chairs-was flanked by lawns on all sides with a large pool off to the right side. The patio extended as far as she could see. And the retaining wall built around it was white stucco on one side and large cobbler stones on the other. Green grass extended until the land dropped into a cliffside. She noticed a large chiminea by the pool and could already imagine the smell, the crackling of an actual, real wood fire. She had missed those kinds of fires. New places were getting those electrics ones if they even had a fireplace. She expected an open fire pit and was pleasantly surprised he could surprise her by having something traditionally Mexican in the Portuguese villa.

She stepped outside and absorbed the sea air. Red's coat-that she still had around her shoulders-warded off a bit of the chilled air as the sun continued to set just beyond the cliffside. It really did look like the sun was being swallowed by the sea. Pine trees and palm trees flanked the stucco privacy walls surrounding the villa and bright green vines looked like veins popping out of the otherwise perfect wall here, too. There were teak lounge chairs flanking the pool and the low retaining wall at the higher point of the sloped hillside. She hoped a few of the chairs at least had lounge pillows or something in storage otherwise she'd be bringing inside pillows outside. A gentle slope gave way to a second part of the house where it was seemingly unattached save for the atrium from her point on view.

There were three small outposts that functioned as smaller guest houses but when she looked over and asked what they were, he had a grin that suggested they were far from innocent in appearance. He most likely had another counterfeiting production line in one. Or stored illegal something or others. She was sure it was something though. The villa was literally steps away from the beach. She could see the neighbor's house next door hundreds of meters away but they seemed to be the only ones home.

"Would you like a tour of the rooms?" a voice whispered in her ear.

She turned her head to find him standing almost flush behind her-if he was to take another step closer, at least.

"Okay," she nodded.

He held out his elbow and she wrapped an arm through his and her hand curled into the crook of his elbow as they inched closer towards the house.

"How many rooms?" she asked as they stepped through the door and went back the way they came in the first place.

"Four in this house," he says as he walks with his held held high and slightly angled towards hers as he answers her question.

"Where's Dembe?" she asks.

"I asked him to drive to the hotel just down the beach for dinner. I have people who can bring me cars but none who can shop for me. Money doesn't buy you everything," he laughs at his own joke.

He opens the door and lets his arm fall to his side as she slides past him to move into the room. Its decorated in a sea foam green and light-almost-white gray. It's odd how two similar colors you wouldn't touch as a child in the Crayola crayon box mix so well as an adult trying to piece together a room. This room doesn't have a view of the sea, its on the other side of the house. But what it lacks in view, makes up for in size. Instead of the adobe tile they walk on, the bedroom has a mahogany brown hint to it. It reminds her of standing on an old ship deck, one made out of real wood. Its long like shag carpet but not the 60's shag, a modern upgrade. She finds it reassuring the bed has blankets instead of comforters. It's the seemingly one constant in their lives right now. A creamy white bookshelf aligns one side of the room and some cubby holes are filled with books of all shapes and sizes. Some are empty. Some have a decorative piece of art or a vase in it. She wonders if they are from his travels.

The second room is decorated much like the first except this one is a pale blue and white color scheme. She really likes the colors. She doesn't know why but she always figured Raymond Reddington would be more into the darker, deeper colors. These past two rooms have contrasted that idea, though. There's a painting in the room of the open ocean from the bow of a ship. The sea is endless in the painting just like the view the room is missing.

The third room is once again repeated with the exception of the color scheme. This room was gray but not in the dark, dank sense of gray. More like a bluesy, purple-y, and greenish gray. She was reminded of the artwork he'd been shipping to a man on the phone years ago when they were hunting Gina Zanetakos. The gray was a bit lighter than that of the painting but she realized all the rooms had a color scheme type theme from that painting. Or at least, she thought they did. Unlike the other two rooms, this one did have a view of the sea. She doesn't know why but suddenly she gets a flash of this being the baby's room. Probably only because it's the closest to the master, she thinks.

"The washrooms are there and there," he pointed to the shut doors on either side of the hallway that they didn't go in as they exit the latest room.

"Once you've seen one washroom, you've seen them all?" she teases.

"Oh, I think you'll like ours the best," he quips.

They meander through the hallway and he opens the door to the master bedroom. Her jaw drops merely at the size.

The room is light and airy, one side is mostly doors leading outside to the patio and terrace. The bed is large, much larger then ones she had ever slept in before, even with him and his adventures, and she can't help the way her feet move her there. The pillowed headboard is a rich slate gray color that doesn't look odd with the almost light buttery yellow of the walls. The bed sheets themselves are a pristine white color with mixed pillows featuring white, slate gray, and buttery yellow. The nightstands flanking the bed are wicker, like the two chairs by the chess table out in the living room and she smiles. Not everything is about wealth and status. Or perhaps it came furnished like this. She doesn't really know. The built-in book cases are sunken into either side of the bed extending all the way to the corners where one wall meets another. There's a walk in closet almost as large as her bedroom on one side and she assumes the other door is the washroom.

"Why light colors?" she asks as she sits on the edge of their bed. She traces a creamy buttery yellow blanket sitting at the foot of the bed.

He shrugs his shoulders. He stands at one of the doors leading outside and pushes a billowy white curtain back to let her see the view outside. It looks like their entire room is the sunken space she thought was the disconnected part of the house. The gentle slope is now an uphill battle-a small one-and the view looks like they'll be swallowed by the setting sun and the sea. She's absolutely mesmerized by the sight.

He turns and steps out of the way of the sunset, watching as it plays across her face. The room has a pink-orange glow about it which makes the buttery yellow color seem more yellow orange than its "natural" state. He's sure his new favorite view will be from this room. Watching the sun rise and sun set across her skin. Her little tired, genuine smile she gives him when he's caught staring at her as she wakes and finds his eyes on her form. There's a beauty to Elizabeth Keen that's highlighted with the light through the windows. She seems to glow, to revel in the sun shining on her pale skin. She wasn't made to live in the shadows like him. But she chooses her own path and nothing he can do will prevent her from trying to shine her light in his vast ocean of darkness.

"What?" she asks. She runs a hand through her hair self consciously. She knows her hair is mused from travel and sleep and she probably looks a bit like death warmed over. But he's got that look in his eyes and she can't help but wonder why.

"The light," he begins and pauses. He takes his steps slowly, cautiously until he's standing just to the side of her. The light still plays against her face. His fingers tip her chin up as she tries to look down at her hands in her lap. He smiles down at her. A quick flash of a smile and his expression is once again lost to her. He tilts his head towards the door.

"Dembe's back," he tells her.

"Okay," she nods. "I'm just going to..."

She points to the washroom and he nods.

"I'll go on ahead," he tells her.

His steps are slow and she waits until he leaves the threshold to finally get up from the bed and go into the washroom. She's tired and yet alert at the same time. She wants to talk to him, gauge his reactions but it's taking too much of her energy to simply keep her eyes open. After splashing her face with water and using the toilet, she makes her way to the kitchen. At least she has an appetite, she thinks.

* * *

Dinner was a quiet affair. Dembe had driven to one of the hotels just down the beach and picked something up from one of the restaurants inside. She didn't know how but whatever this dish was, it settled well with her and she was grateful. She watched Red sneak pieces of whatever he had onto the floor and heard the familiar chomp as Hudson became a dog-sized compactor, eating everything he was given. It looked like Red had given Hudson most of his meal but neither she nor Dembe chose to point it out.

She watched him as he walked out past the pool. Hudson, not one to be left behind, ran after the man. She leaned against the open French door and felt Dembe standing beside her, leaning on the other side of the frame. Dishes were few and far between tonight thanks to the take out boxes.

"He's been quiet," she says. She turns her head and watches Dembe as he looks at the disappearing form of his employer. Her hands clasped together and rest against her stomach. Though still flat she can almost sense a foreign feeling about her body now. She knows they'd laugh so she keeps it to herself.

"So you have results?" Dembe asked.

She's positive he went to Dembe after she had told him what she had thought but neither man said anything to her. And she respected the privacy of both of them.

"Tentative," she nods. "The test was positive yesterday morning. But a blood test is more thorough. So is an ultrasound."

"I will find you a clinic here and you both will know," Dembe nodded.

"Thank you, Dembe," she says as she leans away from the door and grasps his forearm.

They stand there quietly, watching the sun sink lower and lower. Its taken ages for the thing to set.

"I can't get a read on him tonight," she blurts out.

This time it's Dembe who reaches out. His hand grasps her shoulder and she sags against the frame of the door.

"Have faith," is all he says.

She wonders if Dembe senses they need to talk because he nods and vanishes without another word to her. When she hears a door open and close, she figures that's her cue to head outside.

He's standing near the edge where a sandy path winds down the small cliff to the private alcove of the beach. Here there is nothing but sea in the distance. She looks down and watches the waves lap around the shore, depositing and pulling sand and rock on the beach. Hudson is sniffing around the greenery just to the side of him. She thinks he growls every so often to let Red know he's not alone.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks quietly.

She wants to sit but the only place to sit is on the ground and she's not sure she'd get up if she went down.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, avoiding her question.

"Tired," she shrugs.

"How are you feeling, Lizzie?" he asks. This time he seems to emphasize 'feeling' and she knows he's trying to probe her emotional state. Just as she is with him. They always seem to do it in a round about way.

She lets out a breath and she looks around at the view before answering.

"Scared," she admits.

She always thought if she was to have a child, it would be through adoption. She wasn't even going to broach the topic with him until well into the relationship. She thought they could afford the luxury of time but fate or whatever she wanted to believe in at the moment seemed to speed up their timeline and here they are. He radiates calm but she knows him-or at least his profile and emotions-well enough to see beyond the front. His fingers tapped along his leg and if that wasn't enough there was Hudson... the one with the sixth sense that always seemed to keep close when he sensed unease.

"I thought..." she trailed off. She picked at the hem of her shirt.

"Are we ready?" she asked. She's read the book reports of Ressler's, dug through every letter agency and their files on him, but she's only glimpsed a few stories about his past from him. She doesn't know him through him, just what she's read on paper. He's an enigma to her. She wants to know him as he knows her. They've had a strengthening relationship through the years; she trusts him completely as he does her. But the not knowing bothers her.

He finally looked at her and she bit her lip. Her wide blue eyes were darkened and dilated in this outside setting.

"A child can't fix the past," he whispered.

"Why does it always come down to fixing the past?" She asks. "Why can't it just be a new chapter in the book?"

"Because our past shapes us, Lizzie." He looks back at the sea and his jaw twitches.

"Are we okay?" she whispers. She doesn't look at him.

"We're adjusting just fine, Lizzie," he tells her. "We'll be okay."

She laughs a little as he tells her what she needs to hear instead of what she wants to hear.

"Dembe says he'll be looking for a clinic," she tells him as she switches topics a bit. Onto a lighter topic on the same subject that will hang onto them for some time. "I don't think we're going to get anywhere until after Christmas though."

She wants to ask him if she goes to bed tonight, will he still be here in the morning. But she doesn't. Instead she stays quiet and looks out to the sea. She feels his eyes on her but doesn't look at him. Because then the question will rise on it's own and she won't be able to take it back. Perhaps she should trust he'll still be here in the morning. With a final fleeting glance at him as she turns back to the house, she tries to level him with a smile. She only hopes it works.

Tomorrow is Christmas Eve and she knows from the file what happened years ago on Christmas Eve. Or what the higher ups dictated what happened. He says its a lie. She believes him. He has never been around on Christmas Eve or Christmas. Each year his phone-Dembe's phone-goes straight to voicemail and she never bothered asking for the location of his chip. He always left a single gift for her. It was unassuming; it was always wrapped in old newspaper rather than bright wrapping paper. It's always small and meaningful. Then again, that's what gifts are all about.

She wonders what will happen this year.

* * *

She tries to wait up for him, to see him actually sleep in the same bed as she does but fails. After unpacking her suitcase and his garment bag and suitcase, she's beyond exhausted. She thinks it's more emotional exhaustion than physical. But it's exhaustion still the same as she crawls into the bed and lifts the pristine and crisp sheets around her and steals both blankets from the foot of the bed and wrapping them around her. If she feels him tug at least one away from her, she'll at least know that he's slept in the same bed as her. The tiny little baby growing inside her seems to suck up all her energy she's reserved in waiting up for him and finds herself quickly falling into the dark abyss of sleep.

He and Hudson finally make it to the bedroom as the light starts to rise again in the morning sky. It's just a little past three but there's something about the coast that gives the illusion the sun never sets. He forgets this when he checks his wrist and notes the time. He didn't spend all night outside. Merely a few hours before heading for the chess board in the living room. His defense was set when he finally checked to see what time it was. When he finally makes it to the bed she's deep under the sheets and blankets in the middle of the bed almost leaning towards his side. He uncovers her head-he's always sure she's going to accidentally suffocate herself burrowing her head under the sheets and blankets-and finds her asleep on her stomach, one hand underneath her stomach and her head burrowed into his pillow.

He sheds his clothes, not bothering to do much else and sighs quietly as he slips underneath the sheets. He hears her let out a breath of air and stills but she doesn't wake. Instead, almost as if she could sense him, she moves her head from his pillow. He smiles tiredly and closes his eyes. His fingers reach for any part of her they can hold without waking her and he's soon asleep within minutes.

He wakes mere hours later. He puts his clothes he had shed into the hamper in the corner and dressed in his most casual wear. He figured she'd be up in a couple hours and need to eat. So, he grabbed Hudson and walked down the beach to the hotel and just past the hotel was a farmer's market of sorts. Fruit was always a good option, he hopes.

She felt his eyes on her as she woke. She blinked her eyes open and found him standing at the French door that led outside. He's half dressed: he wears black cotton pants instead of his usual dress suit pants and a white undershirt is peaking out of his casual button down shirt. Half dressed merely because he doesn't have a vest or tie nor his shoes and socks on. It's progress, she thinks. If she wasn't used to his lack of sleeping, she would have asked when he had gotten up.

"Morning, Lizzie," he whispered.

"What are you doing?" She asked. Her voice was rough with sleep. She tucked the sheet around herself and watched as he tilted his head.

He moved away from the door and he watched as she watched his movements. He sat on the bed and his fingers skimmed the sheets that covered herself.

"How are you feeling?" He asked.

"The fishy smell is back," she said. Her nose pressed into the sheets and she closed her eyes. The sheets smelled fresh, salty air and sunshine with a hint of detergent. It was soothing compared to the fishy smell outside the sheets.

She heard him chuckle and he got up from his position on the bed next to her, heading for the shadowy corner next to a large white painted bureau. He grabbed his shirt from last night and dangled it on a crooked finger as he walked back towards her.

"Here," he said, holding it out to her.

She sat up slowly, her fingers snatching the shirt dangling precariously from his finger and slid it over her t-shirt she wore. That familiar smell unique to Raymond Reddington still lingered on the shirt. She still felt queasy but she was sure with a small amount of breakfast, it would stop. She didn't swim in his shirt but his arms were a bit longer than hers and he took one of her arms and began to roll up the cuffs.

"Can a baby sense smells yet?" she asked jokingly as she sighed.

"Perhaps ours is advanced for its age," he quips.

She was surprised to find he never wore cologne. Instead, the familiar smell she and the baby were so fond of was a mix of simple shampoo-soap, deodorant, shaving soap, and aftershave. All the bottles and soaps were always neatly aligned on the countertop on his side of the sink and in the shower for the shampoo-soap. Double sinks were invented by the gods, she thought. Not that they had too much to crowd a single sink. It was just nice having something that was her own while traveling.

She borrows his robe because he's already dressed for the day. And he hands it to her as soon as she comes out of the washroom. Despite the tension in their conversation from last night, they are relatively at ease with one another in the morning light.

"Breakfast?" He asks.

She nods and he gestures to the door and he places a hand at the small of her back as they make their way to the kitchen.

As she sits at the nook watching Hudson eat the last of his dog food, she wonders when he got all the fruit laying out on the counter. Instead of asking, she watches him as he puts berries and peaches into a blender with enough water to cover the fruit. The blender turning on has Hudson's attention and he moves from his food bowl to the counter where Red is testing the thickness of the smoothie he just made.

"Try that," he says as he pours a small amount into a small glass and makes his way over to the nook she's found that overlooks the ocean. Their fingers brush and she smiles internally at the way her body involuntarily ignites at even the smallest of contact with him. It's a rush of warmth and feelings spreading through her veins.

The smoothie has just a hint of tartness from the berries and a brief sugary sweetness from the peaches. It's not overwhelming to her sensitive taste buds and she keeps the first sip down. She read that sometimes it's a feat to get something down in the morning. So far she hasn't had that problem but the constant queasiness makes her feel like she's stuck on a sailboat.

"Thank you," she says.

He nods and goes back to the counter and pours himself a glass and puts the leftovers in the fridge. It would just need a bit of ice and a blend. She thinks smoothies might become her friend. He makes his way over to the nook and sits on the other side, leaning back casually.

"Where's Dembe?" She asks as she notices his steady presence is missing.

"Probably sleeping," he says. "It's only eight o'clock."

"Oh," she noted.

"Hudson and I took a walk this morning down to the local market by the hotel," Red tells her. "We picked up this fruit and a few other things in case that didn't settle."

"How far away is the hotel?" she asks.

"Almost five miles if you take the streets. Two miles if you go up the beach. We went the beach route," he laughs to himself.

She shakes her head slightly and looks over at the dog now flopped out in the middle of the kitchen.

"I have a bit of unfinished business to take care of today," he says slowly. He's watching her, gauging her reaction.

Her brow lifts in question as she sips.

"Extra security, and I think it's time to check in with Donald and see how the list is coming along," he says.

He sips at his own smoothie as if it's another ordinary day. Which she supposes it technically is now.

"Dembe is going to the markets. Perhaps you'd like to join him," he tells her.

It's more of a command than a suggestion she thinks. She doesn't take it personally.

"Because I'm the one who's going to have the changing taste buds?" She asks with a small smile.

He offers her one back and nods.

"I remember my wife had a fondness for the strangest things. She constantly ate those oyster crackers, the kind you get with some soups, despite not feeling sick," he recalls. "Of course she ate them all the time in the morning before breakfast. Couldn't begin to eat without them."

He gets this sort of wistful look on his face and her features pinch as she tries to memorize this moment. He rarely talks about his wife and daughter if he brings up his past. It's interesting to see this side of him, knowing it's a painful past and still not knowing what really happened to them. He acts as if it doesn't affect him but she can see it does. The wistful look he flashed her had taken a few years away from his aura. It was lighter, more carefree. But then his demeanor was set in place again and she smiled up at him.

"We can still do the nightly walks together, right?" she asks.

"Of course, Lizzie," he nods. He tips his empty glass on the wood table underneath the glass and looks up. "I only took Hudson without you because you were sleeping so soundly and we were both up."

She nods, reassured.

* * *

She always had a frosty or snowy Christmas. It seemed this year she was destined for sunshine; cool sunshine but sunshine nonetheless.

The fish market was too close to Oceano supermercado and she found herself retching into a trashcan with Dembe's hand on her back as she held her hair. He purchased a water for her and she swished out her mouth and stepped away from the alley trashcan and sipped at the water. He suggested another market-Supermercado Apolónia-slightly up the road that had a better selection anyway, and asked if she wanted to wait in the open air. She nodded and he let her go with a warning to stay alert. She had promised she would and asked him to get Saltines or whatever equivalent he could find. She was thankful he hadn't told her she couldn't go anywhere but she knew to stay in the relative line of sight of the market's entrance. Which is how she found herself staring at the hair stylist's window and a half hour later was beginning to look a lot less like a cop.

Dembe's only reaction was a slight upturn of his lips and a nod. He had told her not many markets were open for a lot of the everyday items but he'd gotten food for Hudson and enough food to at least get them through Christmas.

Red was playing solo chess when they walked inside-the game he had started with himself much earlier in the morning. She was playfully attacked by Hudson. She figured it was because she was the one holding his bag of food while Dembe carried the rest of the groceries. He had almost put up a protest but she had shot him down with a careful look. She was pregnant, not an invalid, cliche as it was. After all, as she thinks back on Hudson's playful attacks, it always seemed to happen to Tom whenever he had the food when they had gone to the store. Dembe told her he'd unpack the rest of the groceries and she knew from the look he gave the sunken living room, he'd be watching as he begins the cooking process.

She placed her hands on his shoulders and leaned down so her chin ever so slightly brushed the top of his head.

"Who's winning?" She asks.

He gives her a chuckle and one of his hands reaches up to grasp at hers. When he traps one in his hand, she leans to the side and brushes her cheek against his own. She closes her eyes as his stubble brushes against her soft cheek. She's noticed when he doesn't have to make an appearance anywhere, he will go a few days without shaving. He also prefers not to look in the mirror. Perhaps the new cut has made her bolder. She's certainly never initiated contact like this before. Her nose brushes against his cheek and he turns to face her. His surprise can't be masked as he pulls away.

"Wow," he stutters.

She laughs and suddenly feels nervous. It's not the first time she's surprise him but it's the first time she's almost rendered him speechless. Her free hand reaches her new locks and grasps and twirls through the short ends.

"Do you like it?" She asks. She certainly didn't do it for his sake but somehow his opinion does matter to her and she wants to know what he thinks.

"Should I grow mine out? I'm sure we could match eventually," he teased. "It shouldn't take me too long to get to that length again."

She laughs. She's seen the pictures of his hair, both long and short and thinks he looks rather fetching with his hair cropped short like this. But she also finds his hair from the early 2000's to be her favorite: he grew it out from the standard military crop but it was short enough to look nice and polished. He was very professional looking, almost lawyer-like. Which she guessed is what served him well as he made a reputation of being the Concierge of Crime.

"I just needed a change," she shrugged. "Plus, everyone says I look like a cop and what if that gets you hurt."

He crooked his finger at her and she stooped down to his level again, unsure of what he was going to do.

He ran his fingers through her shortened locks and cupped the back of her head, pulling her towards him as he kissed her.

"You look beautiful," he whispered against her lips. "Stunning, really."

"Charmer," she laughed and ducked her head.

"Perhaps," he agreed. "But it doesn't make it any less true."

She ducks her head and whispers she needs to go brush her teeth. He raises his brow and she confesses about the alley trash can incident. He looks concerned and she laughs it off telling him Dembe was quite the gentleman and even bought her some mints.

* * *

The kitchen smells wonderful and she longs to be able to cook like Red and Dembe. Dembe has given Red the day off cooking and has made a mini meal for three of turkey, mashed potatoes, and cranberries. Her stomach growls and Red chuckles beside her. His eyes don't draw away from the book he reads and her head aims for a bit more purchase on his shoulder. Since the trip to the market, he's been almost glued to her side. She wonders if it's her unspoken fears or his own that keeps them beside one another.

Earlier, after her new haircut reveal, she had made the mistake of entering the kitchen as Dembe cleaned out the turkey. She aimed for the hall and stepped into the first washroom he'd pointed out yesterday. A glass of water dangled in her peripheral.

"I'd hold your hair back but the new haircut takes my job away," he says.

She laughs through a groan and swishes the water in her mouth, spitting in out before he leans over and flushes the toilet as she leans against the bathtub.

"I think I should stay out of the kitchen while Dembe's in there today," she says.

He chuckles despite the absurd situation and she sips at the water dangling in her fingers.

"You know our neighbors have this wonderful idea, it's called a siesta. It works wonders," Red says.

"Don't they take it after lunch?" She wonders. At first she thought he was speaking of his neighbors to either side of him but then put two and two together and knew he was speaking of Spain.

"Minor details," he shrugs.

"Come on," he holds out his hands and he takes the water from her loose grip and helps her slowly stand with the other.

They slowly make their way to their bedroom and he diverts her to the washroom so she can brush her teeth before settling in for a nap.

"Do I look tired?" she asks through a mouthful of sudsing paste.

"You do," he nods. "But I also came to bed at three and woke at six. And you know how I don't like to sleep alone."

She catches his gaze in the mirror and although his words are playful, there's a seriousness in his eyes that he can't hide from her. He's taken off his button down and left in his pants and his undershirt.

When they reach the bed, he doesn't pull back the sheets. Instead he simply lifts a blanket and covers her with it before moving to his side. She lifts her arm as he moves towards the center of the bed and he slips the blanket around him as well. His arm makes its way to curl around her middle and she slips a leg over both of his. Her eyes close involuntarily as his fingers run up and down her spine. Her fist that clenches his undershirt between their bodies loosens it's hold ever so slightly and she gives one last deep breath as she succumbs to the warmth of him surrounding her in the waining mid-morning. Little does she know he is a victim to his ploy to get her to nap, falling asleep not long after she does.

The clink of an ice cube brings her out of her memories of this afternoon and she listens as he sips at his scotch. A few hours later, Dembe woke them and said dinner would be served soon. She was still tired and Red wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and walked with her back to the living room. She sat on the couch as he went to the wet bar just to the side of the kitchen and poured himself a finger of scotch and got a single ice cube for the drink. He made his way back to the couch and sat in the corner and she leaned against him. Not quite going back to sleep but more like keeping to his side. Its just past seven and Dembe is carving the turkey. He thought it was a good idea to have it already cut in case she finds something unappealing with carving the bird.

The mashed potatoes are her favorite. The little mound has a buttery little lava flow as the melted butter makes its way down the potato volcano she's accidentally built. The potatoes are light and creamy and taste like heaven. They are perfectly lump-free which bodes well for her. She also mixes the potatoes and cranberries which makes the two men give her side eyes but they refrain from saying much. The turkey is flavorful and yet not too overpowering. Its the perfect mix of spice and she wonders how Dembe can make these meals and keep her stomach from revolting. She thinks eating slowly is also a good idea.

She knows that being thankful for your family is said at Thanksgiving but she really is thankful for these two, especially at this moment. She thinks perhaps this is her greatest Christmas gift.

* * *

She was not a morning person whatsoever, he realized. Which may or may not be a good thing depending on how her morning sickness faired later on. If he was honest, neither was he but a lifetime of watching his back left him few precious hours of sleep. He longed for the days when he was able to lounge in bed and sleep past noon. But he hadn't done that since he was a kid and he was no longer a child. For gods sake he was having a child of his own, again. He carefully extracted his arm from around her waist and slipped out of the bed and watched as she breathed in deeply before settling in sleep. He watches as she adjusts to the lack of warmth next to her since he exited the bed. He looks at her sleeping face, her hand reaching out towards him as she sleeps blissfully unaware of his early morning musings. He wants to know everything about Elizabeth Keen; the little things like the little moments in her life that shaped her into the capable woman she is today. He wants to know her dreams and her fears; her phobias and her wishes; he knows deep down he already loves her but he wants to know more and show her there can be one person in her life that can want to love her and expect nothing in return except be given a second chance. He hopes she knows he's not simply staying because the pregnancy test was positive and she doesn't want to do this alone. He wants to do it because she is right-they both deserve a second chance to make a family. They're rather unconventional in their attempt, sure. But it's their own and he doesn't plan on anyone taking this second chance away.

He slips on his robe after shaking himself out of his musings and quietly padded out of the room and ran a hand across his head as he heard the familiar jingling of a dog collar as Hudson meets him in the hallway. The dog follows him down the hall and he's met with Dembe's shadow in the kitchen.

Red moves to the cupboard where they store the dog food as Dembe reaches the kettle before it could whistle and wake Elizabeth. Somehow the man always knows when he is up and about. Despite being told not to wait hand and foot, Dembe ignored the statement and did it anyway. He stopped telling the man years ago but that doesn't mean he won't stop trying to get him at least once a year.

"I have found a clinic in town willing to be very discreet," Dembe says two days after Christmas as he watches Red pour one cup of dog food into a bright orange dog bowl on the floor beside one of the table legs. Obviously Hudson knew it was time to eat.

"Hopefully you've made an afternoon appointment," Red jokes as he finally looks at the time. It's really not that early but also later than he normally wakes.

"I have noticed she favors sleeping in," Dembe says as he nods to Red's quip.

Red nods and Dembe brings the tea tray to the breakfast nook and waits for Red to sit on the bench before he served the tea.

"White ginger tea," Dembe says. "I know she prefers to not drink tea but my sisters have all used this tea to aid in the sickness that comes with a child."

Red takes the single teacup and splashes one cube of sugar into the tea before stirring it gently with a teaspoon. He leans back and sips at his tea, relishing the quiet.

"I'll have her try it," Red says as he runs the flavor profile across his tongue. It's light and not weighed down so much by the regular, darker ginger tea. He figures with a few sugar cubes, she'll at least try it.

"I will go on a more thorough food run while you are at the appointment," Dembe says as he breaks the silence.

"Make sure you get some iron rich foods," Red told him. "I know she hates oatmeal but it is good for her. She likes the tart fruits; no melons. Maybe ginger ale. It's been quite sometime since I last was a spectator to morning sickness. We'll have to wait for the second trimester to see what foods she craves."

Dembe hides a smile in his teacup at his boss' worry.

"Do you need anything else?" Dembe asked.

"No," Red shakes his head. "Thank you."

"I will see you at three," he nods.

Red watches Dembe leave the room and the only sound in the room is Hudson eating his dog food.

* * *

"Do you speak Portuguese?" She asks as he opens the car door.

"Some," he nods. He waits for her to wrap an arm around his own before heading to the door. "Spanish is more my forte."

"Couldn't you live somewhere where I at least know the language," she sighs.

"Germany has one too many of my enemies and associates who have loose lips," he tells her as he opens the door and lets her precede him inside.

She shouldn't be as surprised as she is that he knows what language she's actually good at.

There's a surprising amount of paperwork and instead of handing it to her to fill out, he starts writing in that neat script she's seen only a handful of times. She watches over his shoulder and quells the urge to throw up from nervousness or rush to the washroom to empty her bladder. It's odd and she wonders why she's not more concerned that he knows her medical history. Of course he wouldn't lie about their history- just their names. She's not sure what he checks off in terms of her history but there are fewer checkmarks on his side than hers.

"Military family," he tells her after he caught her reading over his shoulder.

She hadn't even asked the question but he somehow anticipated it.

"If we had any kind of problems, we wouldn't have been drafted and in commissioned spots," he says.

She remembers the briefing folder Ressler gave her had a brief summary of his military background. He was being groomed for Admiral. A feat in an of itself back in those days, she thinks.

He goes over the information once again and has her sign the release papers before he brings it to the counter. They wait for ten minutes before a technician calls their names he had written on the sheet.

The tech leads them to a room and tells them the doctor will be with them shortly. At least, this is what Red says after the woman shuts the door behind them. She sits on the exam table and the paper crinkles noisily underneath her shifting backside. He steps up next to her and slips a hand into her own. The touch calms her nerves and she looks up at him with a half-smile.

"I feel like I need to throw up," she whispers.

"You want me to," he trails off as he steps from her line of sight so she can see the trash can.

"I think its just nerves," she shakes her head.

"We'll be fine, Lizzie," he says.

He leans in and presses his chin to the top of her head. She closes her eyes and breathes slowly in and out as they wait. It's only when there's a knock at the door that he steps back and a 'come' is issued.

He relates the directions to her and she's thankful she doesn't have to slip into a hospital gown or something. She bites her lips and tries not to faint as her blood is drawn. She looks at him and he holds her gaze. It's enough to keep her from looking where the needle enters her arm. She can smell the tang of copper in the air. As soon as she's sure she's going to throw up on the poor doctor, a cotton swab and gauze is wrapped around her and she feels lighter and heavier at the same time. When Red tells her its ultrasound time, she simply lifts her shirt and unbuttons her pants, pulling them down to her pelvic bone before the doctor squirts a gel onto her stomach. It's not as cold as people claim it to be and it has a kind of astringent smell to it that she hadn't thought about. They all turn as the doppler hits her skin and the doctor turns on the video screen.

It was a clearly defined, little gray, tiny baby shaped blob amidst an oval of black surrounded by more gray. It was a few inches at most and he only had eyes for the little alien-like blob.

The doctor began to ask her questions like when her last period was and she counted back to before Halloween. Red translated in a fog. He couldn't take his eyes off the screen for long. The doctor nodded and paused the screen, taking shots of the little blob and measuring it with the mouse on screen with all kinds of different colored arrows.

Static whooshing filled the room and faint tiny galloping horse sounds could be heard every so often when the doppler hit the right angle on Liz's stomach.

"Ten weeks and one day," the doctor said as his hearing seemed to come in with a rush. "Everything looks to be in order. Good size and development."

He related the Portuguese back to Lizzie who was torn between watching the monitor and her eyes pleading with him to translate.

He watches her as she cleans the gel off her stomach as the doctor gives them a moment. He hands her a handkerchief to be sure- Kleenex only works so well. And when she hands it back and stands, he envelops her in his arms.

She's overwhelmed with too many emotions and she lets the tears fall onto his shirt as she holds herself up in his arms. She's elated, exhausted, sick, and wants to see pictures and video. She wraps an arm around his shoulders and presses on her tip toes to press her lips to his. She needs him to know despite everything, she's thankful he's here with her. He responds in equal fashion and holds her tighter, if possible.

They release one another when the technician comes in with a small CD and an envelope of pictures. She lets him take both and she holds onto his hands as Dembe pulls up in front of the clinic.

The long and winding road back to the house did nothing for her, if she was being honest with herself. He moved around to her side of the car and helped her out when Dembe eased the car into the garage. She leaned into his a little more than usual as he opened the front door and moved her to the couch. He watched as she leaned into the edge of the couch. He handed her the sonograms and the video to put beside her.

"You need to eat," he told her as he looked down at her and tilted his head to catch her eye.

"I can't," she shakes her head. It was the wrong move.

He nods. But he's going to make her something anyway. It seems instead of morning sickness, she gets evening sickness. Especially if they had to go anywhere on the roads. He relates the visit of the doctor to Dembe in low tones as he takes stock of what Dembe bought. Tells him late July-the 24th, the doctor said-they'll have a baby around the house. And Dembe stops unpacking the groceries he's bought as they were in the clinic and brings Red into a brief hug. Red returns it with affection and the two silently promise to speak more about it later.

He makes her a simple dinner of buttered noodles. She's felt queasy since the appointment and he watches as she lays on the couch with Hudson standing guard. As the toast pops, he butters that and then sets it on a plate with water. It's bland and looks quite unappealing but he promised her whatever she wanted and she wasn't up for much.

She tossed Hudson a corner of her toast and he chuckles as he watches the dog beg for more. He stands and she moved to lay across the couch again.  
Dembe enters midway through their meal and takes Hudson to the back patio. Elizabeth didn't fail to notice the man swiped a bottle of beer on the way out.  
Without Hudson begging for food the room was quiet with the occasional clinking of silverware.

"Need anything else?" He asks as he takes the tray in his hands when she finishes.

"No," she whispered. "I think my head likes to be at the same level as my stomach."

He tilted his head and watched as she slowly moved down the couch and into the position he had found her in before she had eaten dinner.

He found the routine of washing the dishes soothing. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and he watched the butter mix with the soapy water.

He turned off the lights in the kitchen and quietly made his way down the steps to the living room.

As he stood over her, he noticed she was still in possession of the sonograms and had one out near her elbow. He leaned down and took it from her side, tucking it into his vest pocket. He unfolded a light throw blanket and placed it around her sleeping form on the couch. It was a bit too early to sleep but they had quite the up and down day. He moved from the couch and her sleeping form to the bar, pouring himself a finger of scotch and heading outside.

The sun was casting a bright red and orange glow over the villa. Dembe was sitting just outside the patio, tossing a ball to Hudson with a half downed beer sitting on a coaster. Red sat with a sigh and looked out to the setting sun. He took a sip of his drink and set it on the table beside him. Working his jaw his finger slipped into his vest pocket and pulled out the black and white sonogram.

"That is what is troubling you?" Dembe asked as he watched Red stare down at his hands.

"It makes it real," Red says as he leans back into the chair and looks over at Dembe. "Happened with my daughter, too. It's never really quite real until you see the first sonogram, hear the heartbeat, and then hold it in your arms."

"May I?" Dembe asked. He threw the tennis ball once more and Hudson ran after it.

Red handed him the sonogram and took another sip of his scotch. He wet his lips and watched as Dembe's normally thick exterior cracked a bit.

"A child," Dembe whispered with a small smile.

He turns back to the setting sun and raises the amber colored liquid in glass up to his line of sight.

"I come from a line of hardass fathers. My grandfather, my father, they were all military men. I was a military man before I became what I am now. Lizzie comes from a dreadful family. I couldn't even protect my first child why should I have assurances I'll be able to protect this one. Our past seems too much to overcome."

"You don't think you'd make a good father then?" Dembe asks.

"It's not that," he shook his head. He swirled the scotch around in the glass and looked into its depths. "I'm afraid I won't be strong enough if I lost another family."

"And Liz?" He asks.

"She's strong enough for all of us," he smiles that little smile he gets whenever he talks about Elizabeth Keen. The one that curls the corner of his lip and there's a brief flash in his eyes before it all disappears.

"Then you must have faith, my friend," Dembe says easily. He slides the sonogram back over to Red and taps the little blob just to the right of his fingers. "They are counting on you."

* * *

tbc


	6. Chapter 6

Oye. Another filler chapter I'm sorry. But we'll get to the good stuff after I finish my papers. I figure this is better than nothing! Let me know how you feel about it, too! Mostly snippets and not really completely connected but you'll get the gist, I think. :)

* * *

It rained a few days after Christmas. Dembe's only made one trip to the house and Hudson hadn't wanted to go outside in the rain but as long as Red had an umbrella standing over the poor mutt, he'd do his business and come inside after Red made sure his paws were clean. The dog would flop down by the fire and Red currently stood in the middle of the room, looking between Liz and Hudson on either side of the room.

He shrugged off his coat and hat and hung the umbrella on the coat rack before he made his way to the kitchen.

He comes back with a glass of water and crackers and she wonders how it is he knows she's just finished in the washroom. She burrowed herself into the edge of the couch with the familiar blanket around herself as she leaned towards the crackling heat of fireplace. She quickly brushed her teeth before Red and Hudson made their way inside and she still tastes the acid tang on the back of her tongue she can't reach without gagging herself and she looks sheepishly up at him.

He sits heavily in the middle, his thigh touches her feet situated under the blanket and she releases one of her hands from the blanket to take the glass. She feels his stare as she sips slowly and she closes her eyes as the water runs down her throat. It helps quell the feeling that still, almost constantly lingers. He opens the cracker package and takes the water from her without a word and they trade. He places the glass on a coaster in front of his feet that end up on the coffee table as he leans back.

She takes her time eating the dry squares. The dry, salty tang touches her tongue as she purposefully puts the lightly salted side down on her tongue and she briefly, ever so lightly, sucks the salt off before she halves the cracker with a single bite. It's not much salt but it's enough to at least flavor the otherwise dry, bland cracker. She continues this until the package is gone-he's given her the one she half finished earlier this morning-and the white packaging finds its way to the side table as she leans into him.

Wordlessly, he edges them to the other side so they're not leaning awkwardly in the middle of the couch and so her head is relatively level with her stomach. Her cheek brushes his as she leans against him. His hand sneaks between the blanket and finds her skin, rubbing the soft, smoothness of her bared shoulder with his calloused fingers.

"Is it different?" she asks. She pauses and thinks about how she should clarify her question without making him retreat into himself. "This time around."

His fingers smooth and scratch at the nape of her neck as he moves upward; he expels a larger breath. He doesn't even realize what he does when he turns into himself and his memories.

"It's different yet the same," he says.

She waits and would have probably waited forever to hear him expand. Luckily she only has to wait a few moments.

"My family is full of... not the easiest of fathers. I suppose it was only a natural requirement I go into the military as well. It was more verbal abuse than physical. My father said it was to toughen me up for all the instructors I'd have at Annapolis; wanted me to get Admiral before he did," he pauses for a long while and she can almost feel him as he lightly rests his chin atop her head. "I think all soon-to-be parents will always be nervous about their future child. What will she look like, will she love me, will I love her... It's always the same questions and fears; the universal constant. I have the additional fear of will I be able to keep you two alive this time around."

She doesn't know if he consciously speaks of the gender but she doesn't want to probe him on that topic yet. She's not sure how he'll take it or how she'll even take it once they go in for that scan. But that's a while off and she's not ready to bring that up yet. But she can hear the pain in his voice and she knows that at least she can bring him back to the present. She whispers his name against his skin. His full name and not the nickname she's taken to these last couple years. It's still foreign on her tongue but its a soft sort of spoken word that has power.

His face is hidden in the shadows and she'd have to crane her neck in an awkward position to read him so she can only feel him respond instead of watching him. He brings himself around and she knows when he's fully in the present because he lets out a little hum in response to hearing his full name whispered from her lips.

"I can help you protect us, you know," she whispers and she feels him let out a sigh.

With a breath of air she could disappear; he could disappear. But they stay here in the remote isolation, something holding both of them back and staying with each other. She knows despite all his initial arguments of why she should leave, she knows he'd protect her better than the FBI would have been able to. He gives a brief chuckle and she feels the warmth of his breath against her chilling skin.

"I know, Lizzie," he nods. "I know."

* * *

She had her head on the cool wood of the table and groaned in her mind as something was set on the table. She had no appetite. She didn't know why he was pushing this.

"Lizzie," her name rang out on his lips.

"I can't eat," she said. Her voice muffled since she didn't look up.

"It's not food," he tried.

She slowly brought her head up from the table and peered at him through one squinted eye as she eyed the tea tray.

"Tea?" she asked.

"Dembe's sisters all swear by it," he nodded. "Dembe and I opened it a few days ago to taste it. It's quite delicious, actually."

Her nose wrinkled and her brows furrowed.

"Trust me," he nods.

She gives him that look and knows that they simple have to utter those words and it's useless to argue against it. She's trusted him since Garrick, since that whole Tom fiasco. She thinks he's always trusted her even when she didn't have faith in herself. Their lives depended on trusting one another-still do and perhaps even more so now.

She watched as he put a cube of sugar in one and two cubes in another, using the glass stirring stick before handing her a cup and saucer. It was her own fault really, when he didn't take his eyes off her. She's been having the hardest time keeping food down and she thinks he partially blames himself. Though, really, how were they to know this would happen.

"Hot," she says through the first sip and he chuckles behind his own dainty cup.

"Other than that?" he asks.

She leans against the back of the bench she sits on in the nook and almost feels the tea working through her digestive tract. It sort of burns through her in a good way; turning off the reflexes that make her want to rush to the washroom to empty her already empty stomach.

"Remember that time you had me try that mint stuff?" she asks as she puts a hand on her stomach. She watches as he nods before she continues. "It's kind of like that rushing through me right now."

"Pleasant?" he hopes.

"I think so," she nods.

He nods and sips at his own tea.

"Should we visit the doctor?" he asks after a few minutes of silent sipping.

"I think the roads would only make it worse," she told him honestly.

He gives a gesture of relief, as if he didn't really want to go to the doctor but merely suggested it to give her an option.

"I'll have Dembe turn on the secure wireless connection," he tells her.

"Does that mean I can borrow your iPad?" she asks.

"I certainly have no real use for it," he says as he hides a smile behind his tea cup.

That doesn't mean when she takes her nap that he'll scour the internet for what he can do to ease this seemingly persistent all day sickness she's been plagued with. He'll watch her carefully as she looks herself. Not to keep track of what she visits but more like a tutorial in how to work the technology he doesn't even begin to pretend to understand.

* * *

The siestas he had revered had become a daily thing. As soon as Hudson and Dembe went for their afternoon walk and whatever else Dembe did when he wasn't Red's shadow, he took her hand or placed a hand on the small of her back and propelled her into the bedroom. He always propped open a door and the billowy white curtain shielding them from the afternoon sun swayed as the breeze caught the fabric. She had always claimed she was never tired so he handed her a book and told her to start reading. Sometimes she would stay up and simply sit against the pillows and the headboard with the soft sounds of his breathing keeping her calm and warm. His head pillowed on her frame also helped in keeping her stationary. Other times, she'd fall asleep with him even though she hadn't meant to do so and she finds herself with a crick in her neck and a Raymond Reddington with a slightly inflated ego for the rest of the night, silently telling her 'I told you so.'

One time she had been adamant about how she wasn't feeling good and didn't want to sleep so she spent the hours reading the first volume of Proust's _In Search of Lost Time-_Swann's Way. He had shoved in her hands and she propped the book on her thigh and he had his head nestled between her side and the propped pillows after she refused to lay down all the way, on account of she really wasn't tired today. Her arm moved to encompass his shoulders and as he leaned into her, her hands ran absently through the short hairs along the nape of his neck and the side of his head. He hummed quietly at the pressure points she came into contact with and she found herself focusing more on what her fingers were doing rather than the words on the page. She chuckled as he gave a small shudder and quickly stopped as he turned his head and nuzzled against her breast. She faltered in her speech-he loved it when she read aloud-as his mouth came into contact with the flimsy material of her shirt.

"Tit for tat, my dear," he claimed as he settled innocently against her once again.

That siesta turned out to be not so much a rest as a reconnection and a post-coital nap where she had surprisingly woken up before him and not just to expel what remained of her lunch.

She had sworn that night when Dembe had shown up for dinner, there was a little smirk in his eye and she noticed Red kept touching her. Like reassuring himself she was still here.

He seemed a lot more refreshed after his siestas. He couldn't sleep at night but in the afternoons he was like a kindergarten child in need of a nap after a morning of school and running around. She wondered if their child would enjoy having afternoon siestas with him on the occasion he wasn't called away on business. It seemed like this was just the calm before the storm and she was anticipating a roughy road ahead. She wasn't naïve and knew this couldn't possibly last; this quiet. It was the calm before the storm much like it was the first year into their partnership. The calm unnerved both of them. And she knew he was itching to do something, anything.

When she did sleep, she noticed he was always curled around her or her limbs were around his own frame, depending on what side she fell asleep on. When she asked him why, since she assumed this occurred nightly as well, he had told her that sleeping on her stomach was eventually going to be out of the question and he was simply helping her find a new position to sleep in.

Today she had actually slept, long and hard until the smell of dinner overwhelmed her. Not in disgust but mouthwatering, stomach grumbling, sort of hungry for dinner, overwhelming. It was the first time in days she had an appetite and she didn't want to waste the opportunity.

He was still asleep next to her which meant it was Dembe in the kitchen and Hudson as his sous chef.

Briefly she wondered how they even got dinner done most nights since their siestas often lasted a lot longer than two hours.

She ran the back of her finger over the bridge of his nose. His response was a simple shifting of his head further into the pillow with a wrinkle of his nose at the offending digit.

"Wake up," she said sleepily. Her nose touched his chin as she tried to remove herself from the cocoon that was Raymond Reddington.

"Five minutes," he whispered. She wasn't even sure he was conscious. But the deep breath in gave him away.

"Dembe's making dinner," she told him. "We slept in again. And I'm actually hungry."

"It's raining," he said. Completely ignoring her words.

She paused and settled against him, listening to the sounds outside.

"No, it's not," she told him.

"But it got you to stay still," he chuckled against her and he finally pulled back and released her from his grasp.

"What do you think he's making?" She asked as she sniffed the air.

"A light curry if the smell is anything to go by. Should be a fun color to paint the toilet with tonight," he told her.

She sighed. Anything that went down eventually came up. Some foods were even off limits to talk about for fear she'd run to the bathroom. Butternut squash was one of those off topic foods. Luckily they didn't seem to be much of a hit in their seaside little town.

"Did you find any solutions to that yet?" she asked quietly.

"Perhaps," he said as he lifted an arm above his head and yawned.

She was watching his lips and found herself mirroring his yawn.

"Are you going to tell me?" she wondered.

"Let's get through today and let me make the arrangements before you completely say no," he tells her.

Her brows furrow but she lets it be. She knows he'd never let any harm come to her but she's wary about what he's found to try and help her constant "morning" sickness.

* * *

He opened his eyes, almost like clockwork, and sighed, reaching for his glasses on the nightstand beside him. He padded out to the kitchen and let her have her privacy as he turned on a light and dug the saltines and candied ginger from the pantry and the water from the filter jar just outside the fridge. The little babe despised cold water or ice water, it seemed. So the jug of filtered water was left out specifically for her.

He padded lightly into the bathroom and squinted at the harsh light. She was still over the bowl and he placed the food on the counter and took one of her hands and wrapped it around the glass.

She put the glass up to her lips and swished like she did every time and he took the glass back and traded her the glass for her toothbrush.

When her mouth felt clean again she spit out the minty paste and flushed the toilet and heard him run the taps as she closed her eyes and scoot herself back against the wall.

A cool washcloth hit her forehead and she sighed, and once he freed her of the toothbrush, she was bringing a hand to hold it in place and heard him take his place beside her. She couldn't help but smile as the crinkle of the packaging alerted her to what he had brought with him.

A square cracker landed in her hand and she brought it up to her lips, nibbling on the dry cracker. She frowned when she heard a snap and brief chewing beside her.

"Those are mine," she said.

"These will be safe from me," he said as he put the other half in the package. He still didn't know how anyone ate these without soup. "But I guess the blander the better."

"You were right," she whispered.

"I usually am," he smirked as he leaned his head back against the wall and rubbed his forehead.

"It didn't taste much like curry going down but I felt it coming up," she says.

He chuckles because she meant for him to do so.

"Dembe uses coconut milk to reduce the curry flavor," he says to her.

There's silence as she finds another cracker in the palm of her hand and she sucks the salt off once again. Her palm settles on her stomach and she presses her fingers against her stomach. She lets out a muffled sigh and breathes out of her mouth in short puffs.

"I stole Dembe's candy," he tells her.

"The sugar cane?" She asked.

"God no, I don't have a death wish. No, the candied ginger."

Her features squinted and he opened the bag.

"It's hard ginger so you suck on it like any other hand candy," he tells her. "It's actually quite good. We get it from this place in the Caribbean that specializes in this sort of thing."

"Fine," she says after a few minutes of self deliberation.

He bites one candy in half, they're quite powerful and he doesn't need her throwing up the crackers she's bound to finish off before they sleep again, and gives her a small chunk while talking the rest for himself.

He watches out of the corner of his eye as she finishes her cracker and takes a sip of her water before slipping the small piece of candy into her mouth.

"How does it taste?" He asks.

"Strange," she says truthfully.

The candy is rough in texture from the almost rock candy like texture of the candied ginger. It's stronger than the tea they make her and she finds her stomach seems to quiet and as she swallows the extra saliva being produced from sucking on the candy, there's a slow, nice burn that refreshes the acidic taste of what she has thrown up moments before.

He hummed and she finally removes the cloth from her forehead. Her head lands on his shoulder and she feels his lips on her skin before he settles his head against the wall. She can hear his candy rolls against his teeth as he plays with his own piece. She also doesn't miss his hand as it rests against the flat of her stomach, joining her hand. Their fingers brush against one another and she smiles and turns her face into his shoulder.

"You don't have to do this every night," she says.

He hums and she finds it to be a negative.

"I'm not sleeping anyway. Might as well do something productive."

She finds this the least productive part of her day but she doesn't question why he finds it important to be here with her.

* * *

Her fingers traced over the wooden nightstand as she nearly blindly reached for the package of saltine crackers. To her relief she found the white package and squinted as she attempted to quietly pull a few crackers from the package.

"I'm up," his voice rang out and she felt him move closer.

Her three crackers left in the package were noisily scooped from the package and she slowly turned around in his arms to face him. His eyes watched her own as she slid a whole square into her mouth and bit down. Saltines were known for being messy and she didn't want the bed filled with crumbs because she needed a bit of food in her stomach before getting out of bed today.

"Are we doing anything today?" She asked through her mouthful of cracker. The only downside was these things have her a dry mouth. Looking to Red's side of the bed she noticed his water was still full. He caught her stare and shuffled away, bringing her the glass she way eying. He waited until she finished her three crackers to hand off the cup.

"Dembe wanted to head to the market but that's how far plans have extended," he answered her previous question.

She watched as he closed his eyes and she listened to the sounds outside. Dembe must be there in the house because Hudson isn't scratching at the door. She leaves their bed and makes sure her ears aren't deceiving her and checks for Hudson outside the door. Finding no dog, she closes the door once again. She turns and heads for the french doors in the room and pushes aside the billowy curtains.

It was raining again. She didn't really think it would rain here but it was winter technically. And the sights were amazing, even in the rain. You didn't even have to squint to see the raincloud sucking up the salty sea water and releasing the big fat drops of rain. Instead it was like a large gray mist settled over the sea. The storm made the waves crash around their beach louder and she figured it was probably hitting the rocks that jutted into the sea in addition to the sandy beach.

"Beautiful isn't it?" He asks from behind her. She can see his reflection through the closed panes on the door. She wasn't sure when he got up from the bed because usually she noticed that sort of thing.

"I didn't expect you do like rain," she says honestly. Its sort of a reminder that they're still trying to get to know on another outside the bounds of the professional relationship they've had for years.

"I like everything but snow," he tells her.

She watches as he watches her reflection.

"DC has snow and you came back to DC. You waited until I was transferred to DC," she points out.

"I had business in DC," he shrugs.

The business was a long list, she thought to herself. His contacts and enemies; the house he once lived in that he blew up; her and the blacklist.

He wraps an arm around her and its at this moment when her stomach starts to rebel. His fingers are fleeting as they land back at his side. He rubs at his forehead and knows that now is the time to call in a small favor to try his hand at helping her queasiness. He needs to go talk to Dembe to get the sat phone to make the call.

* * *

She and Dembe put away the groceries and he says he needs to go back into town and get some information for Red. She looks at the time and notes it's siesta time anyway and waves him off. The cool sunshine and brisk pace they had set for getting their errands all finished left her in need of a recharge. She made her way back to the bedroom and almost stumbled as she noticed Red on the bed. He's still in his robe and pajamas and on the bed. She can see little red ends on needles sticking out all over him. She definitely didn't expect him to stay behind for acupuncture.

He was propped up with his eyes closed and the room felt lighter, if possible. She noticed a woman in the corner and nodded when she did as she made her way to his side of the bed. Her hand sneaks out from her side and she places it on his chest and she watches him smile. She frowns at the needles in his face move with his grin.

"Lizzie," he says without opening his eyes or moving.

"Does it hurt?" She asks.

He peeks open an eye and smiles briefly before his face relaxes once more.

"No," he says. "Rather the opposite."

He cants his head away from her and dismisses the woman in the corner, telling her she's free to wait around the house until the treatment is done.

"You're letting her roam the house?" She asks.

"Ann is a dear old friend; a wonderful healer. I trust Hudson will bark at her if necessary. He did so when she showed up this morning," he tells her.

"He can be a guard dog when he wants to be," she points out.

"Come, lay beside me as I feel my endorphins sing," he tells her.

He closes his eyes as he hears her move.

She chuckled and moved to her side. She takes off her shoes and removes her watch as she climbs in. She pulls both their blankets over her form and she looks up at him as she lies on her side and tilts her head on her pillow. She was careful not to touch him so when one of his hands placed itself on her head, she froze.

"This is what I had in mind," he said with his eyes closed. "I read studies and even talked to Ann as she pierced me."

"It's needles," she says as her brow furrows. And his use of the word 'pierce' definitely turned her off for a moment.

She barely handled the single needle she had to have when they made their first prenatal appointment. It took all she had not to throw up or cry or both. She doesn't know if she can handle it even if they are small, little needles.

"You don't have to do this Lizzie. But it works miracles," he tells her.

His voice is somewhat muffled as he tries not to shift too much with the little needles in certain pressure points of his body.

"Does it really not hurt?" She asks.

"There's a slight pinch as it hits the skin but nothing more. And it's nothing like the one you had at the clinic," he tells her honestly. "Really, Lizzie, I think you will really appreciate the effects."

She sighs and gets up. She changes from her clothes to her sleep shorts and a t-shirt as walks back into the living room and finds Ann talking to Dembe.

Red peeks an eye open as he hears Lizzie talking with Ann as they re-enter the bedroom.

She tenses and Red tells her to relax. He puts a hand on her thigh and she calms. She can't clasp it because he has acupuncture needles in his hands. A deep breath in is all she gets before she closes her eyes and nods.

She feels a slight pull on her skin and makes a noise in the back of her throat. She hears his chuckle and he starts to recount the first time he had this done while he was off meditating in Yunnan. She focused on the sound of his voice and forgets why it is she is anxious as she feels a slight pinch once again. His fingers slip up her thigh and back down again, and it's soothing and the deep quality of his voice is what finally does her in as she slips into a light sleep.

Red watched his acupuncturist as she placed two needles on either side of Lizzie's wrist, the side of her foot, her shins, and between her brows. He finds it reassuring as she avoids her feet. He read information that told him the nerve endings on her feet were far more sensitive now and if there were too many acupuncture needles in that region it could trigger early labor. Though they were both still quite apprehensive and nervous about the situation they found themselves in, she was turning over a new leaf and warming to the idea the more stories he told about his past. And she was certainly becoming bolder in asking instead of waiting for him to reveal his past to her. He mentally shook his head and stepped out of his memories as he watched Ann grab her last acupuncture needle.

"How far along?" Ann asked.

Red recalculated the days and double checked as he watched the woman lift Lizzie's shirt and she probed her flat stomach.

"12 weeks, 3 days," he says. "I don't need to remind you that you are to tell no one of this information. You, Dembe, myself, and Mr. Kaplan are the only ones who know of this."

Ann nodded.

She wouldn't be here if he didn't trust her to keep this private information private.

He watches as she pauses and lifts the last little needle and he tilts his head as she pricks one into Lizzie's abdomen.

"It will not harm the baby," she tells him as she looks up and finds his brows pinched despite the needle he has in the middle. "Relax and let the endorphins work."

Red settles back against his side of the bed and he removes his hand from Lizzie's thigh.

"Fifteen minutes and I will take them out," Ann tells him. "Then I will take yours."

Red closed his eyes and leaned back against the pillows. He might as well get a nap in as well. He heard the door close and with her constant, steady breathing pattern, he slipped into a light doze.

True to her word, Ann came back fifteen minutes later and his eyes popped open. He watched carefully as she removed the acupuncture needles and readjusted Lizzie's shirt. When she placed the needles back on the tray, she moved to the edge of the bed and unravels a blanket, pulling it up and over the sleeping young woman.

"Thank you," Red says gratefully.

Ann nods.

"Now you," she smiles.

He closes his eyes and feels an occasional prick as a needle exits one of his more sensitive parts.

"She should feel the effects when she wakes," Ann tells him. "She may be unsteady, not used to the rush of endorphins, but this should help dissipate the symptoms. It will work on the queasiness but it cannot help with the food she eats, so make sure she knows that."

"We've experienced the food," he notes.

"Call me again two more times and it should relieve any symptoms she experiences," she tells him.

"Thank you, Ann," he says seriously.

"Congratulations, Mr. Reddington," Ann bows slightly and he returns it with a brief bow of his head.

Instead of sleeping as he usually does, he finds a book of poetry and loses himself in the words of those that came before him. Two hours later, she finally wakes and he has another volume of poetry in his hand and Hudson at the foot of the bed.

"How do you feel?" He asked.

"Strange," she says. "But fine."

"Don't get up too fast," he tells her.

"What happened?" she asks.

"You got your wrist, shins, sides of your feet, between your brow, and your belly acupunctured."

"The baby?" she asks suddenly.

"Is fine," he reassures her. "I watched the entire thing."

She lifts her shirt and tries to find where Ann had placed the needle but it was minuscule and she wonders if Red was making it all up. She thinks maybe she can see it, the mark, and she points to a spot and he shakes his head. He closes the poetry book without marking his place and leans over. His calloused finger sends a rush of warmth through her as he places his finger an inch away from her belly button.

"Here," he says.

She moves her finger next to his and his fingers skate down the soft skin as she opens her mouth ever so slightly and he holds in a smirk as he hears her breathing quicken. They've always been affected by each other's touches, but especially her.

"I can't see it," she relents.

"You're not supposed to, my dear," he chuckles. "Come, I'll make us some soup and you can finally show me what you're unconsciously craving," he tells her.

She frowns but knows its true. And she moves slowly because although she doesn't feel queasy, her head feels heavier and she doesn't miss that he's at her side and offering her his elbow. She takes it gratefully and leans into him as he stations her outside the washroom and shrugs her robe over her shoulders before they and Hudson make their way to the kitchen.

* * *

Donald Ressler trusts Meera Malik with his life. Not only is she an extremely intelligent agent and a tremendous asset but she is quite personable once you get underneath the exterior of Meera Malik, CIA agent.

Her daughter was cute and petite, like the woman he knew, and he knew that she was probably just as strong as her mother.

What he didn't expect was to find them inside his apartment with Meera's daughter on his couch and reading a book while Meera herself was at the kitchen table.

"Do I even want to ask how you got in here?" He asked.

"Probably not," she gave him a brief smile and tapped at the manila envelope and the picture on top.

"Where'd you get this?" She asked.

It was the picture of Elizabeth Keen he had been sent from Reddington. Although he had burned the envelope, he had kept the picture. He didn't know why he did. He couldn't explain it.

"Why?" He asked. His hands went to his hips and he made a defensive posture.

"I ask because it is recent," she says as she taps the snow in the foreground and background. She always has been too observant for her own good. "So I ask again, where did you get it?"

"It came in my mail," he shrugged. "One day I came home and it was stuffed in the box."

"Return address?" She asked

He hesitated and she nodded.

"Knowing Reddington, it was probably fake. I should tell you that Cooper told me to investigate on a different level than just the FBI," Meera said. "But I can't because he told me I shouldn't tell you this at all. And I shouldn't show you this folder that I do not have."

Meera stood up and rapped on the wooden table with her knuckles twice.

"Why are you doing this?" He asks.

"Because, like you, Liz is my friend and there's something not right about this whole investigation."

"You put her on the most wanted list," Ressler said.

"Cooper put her there," she shook her head. "You actually think Liz is going to get caught? Reddington had to turn himself in, in order for us to finally catch him. He shows up at locations he knows we have people and cameras watching because he knows he's untouchable. Think about it, Ressler."

"Where will they go next?" He asks. He finally sits and takes the folder from her side of the table. It's thin nut he's sure what it lacks in weight makes up for in substance.

"I don't know. There's very little chatter right now about Reddington, like there usually is," she shrugs. "There's a possibility of them still being in Europe but Europe is large and although Reddington has a lot of enemies there he does have more allies, and well paid allies at that. They will protect him and Liz unless the bid is higher and the government doesn't have enough to counter what Reddington pays his people."

"Do you profile?" He asks.

"Like Liz? No. But were all taught at the agency. I'm not as capable as Liz was but I can hold my own," she says. "Why?"

"I have access to the safe house they used. If you profile them, we can find them," he says.

"And what? Send them a message? Tell them it sounds fishy?" Meera wonders. "They already know this, it's why they left."

"I just need to talk to Liz in person," he says.

Meera sizes him up and seemingly profiles his reasons without speaking of them. She nods.

"Fine. This week. Cooper can't know about any of this."

"You won't hear any complaints from me," Ressler shrugged.

He hears her gather his daughter and gives them a half attempted goodbye as he opens up the envelope.

He sighed as he looked at the pictures in front of him. He didn't expect Red to be a dog person but there he was, walking along the Seine with Liz and her dog. What was interesting to him were the pictures of a meet. The fedora on her head, how close they were sitting. He turned his nose up at the pictures where they were seen sharing a meal. He had his proof that she had grown close to him. But that didn't mean he still didn't want to talk to her face to face. Perhaps that would be the only thing that once and for all shut down his nervous mind. Something was fishy about this whole situation and he couldn't help but wonder what side he was going to side with when it came down to revealing all the cards.

* * *

He opened his eyes and found it to be that time when he usually found her trying to quietly shut the door so she could have some privacy as she relieved her queasy stomach. As he almost automatically reached for his glasses, he notices there's still a warm lump of blankets beside him with a hand sticking out where her head should be. He pulls back the blanket from her face and is relieved to find her asleep instead of trying to disappear from the constant venture from the bed to the washroom. Her breaths and deep and even which gives him another internal sigh of relief. As her face is exposed to the changing temperature of their room, she huddles closer in an unconscious move and she finds his shoulder. It may kill him in the morning but her little mewl of approval she makes unconsciously will somehow make it all worth it. He breaths her in, the fresh smell of shampoo, detergent, and something uniquely Elizabeth Keen before he shuts his racing mind down for another few hours.

* * *

tbc


	7. Chapter 7

Whoops. So sorry about the long time between updates. School and work really cramped my style. I've cut this down into two parts because I needed a conversation in here to happen and the other part after this end was too long so here is part 1. And part 2 isn't finished but hopefully I can get some time to do it next week!

* * *

He didn't like mentions of his birthday. No cards, no presents, no wishing of a happy day. It was the second year of chasing his blacklist suspects when she found out he didn't like the day in particular. She hadn't been there on his first birthday when he brought them the list; she remembers she, Ressler, and Meera had to go to Florence for some intelligence. Surprisingly, he stayed behind. When they had gotten back, that year she had finally simply wished him a happy birthday. Those two words nothing more, she saw a flash of sadness steal across his face as he had thanked her. But she had seen the effort he took into forming those two words. She had left the present she had spent almost half a paycheck on, on top of a stack of books in the corner, giving both him and her a way out of the emotional entanglement she had accidentally stepped into. It was a mixed bag of emotions the next day when he came into the post office, straightening his cuffs-subtly showing off her gift he had indeed opened-as he stood next to her and began to relate a tale of how he had met the next name on the blacklist.

She didn't miss the fact he often wore the cufflinks on holidays, when he knew he'd see her outside the Post Office. She had actually picked them up in Florence. It was a down day while they waited for the go ahead from their superiors and so she spent the time exploring. Red had given her a list of places to eat, where to shop if she so desired, and told her if she dropped his alias at one of the fancier hotels, she'd have the room he usually stayed at and they would simply bill his open account. She hadn't stayed there but she did have a meal there and the smile alone when she returned to the States to relay her trip there, outside the "boring" work details, cemented the fact a new leaf was turning for them. She had seen the cufflinks in a jewelry store display window. Well, she had seen a pair that looked like something he would wear and then when she stepped inside, she was instantly drawn to the ones she eventually bought. They were small circular links with a green sort of stone that was dull but bright at the same time. But it wasn't just one kind of green, no, it was a multitude with intermixing of amber yellows and mahogany browns. She thought they would look rather fetching with his white suit or his forest green or even his rich brown one he had recently bought. She shook her head and wondered when she had started to notice his suits and how it is she noticed him more when he wore the cuts and colors she preferred. The stones were inlayed in a platinum fitting and when she was able to hold the cufflinks, she was surprised at how little they weighed. In her mind she gasped at the price but she handed over her card. It wasn't like she didn't have the funds, it was just that would be half her paycheck. And she wasn't even sure that he would like them.

Today felt different when she woke up. It wasn't her birthday, it was his. Yet she feels a sort of change in the air. The other side of the bed is warm, inching on cool and she slides her hands over the sheets and stretches before getting up. She thanked whoever was listening that she had finally ended her constant sickness and queasy days at the mere mention or smell of certain foods. Both moving to a second trimester and the acupuncture worked miracles. As she moved to the bathroom to conduct her morning business, she finished, washed her hands, and shrugged on her robe. She frowned as she noticed his blue one was still off the hook. Typically he was already dressed before she woke. Perhaps this was the changing leaf sort of thing that pressed on her.

She made her way to the kitchen and found the blue robed individual standing over the stove watching both a pan and a hot water kettle.

"Morning," he said without turning around.

"Morning," she parroted. She slid onto the stool just around the side of the kitchen counter he was nearest to and leaned into the high back of the stool. She appreciated the view, him standing there in his pajamas and robe, his black framed glasses on, and he ran a hand over the back of his head as he heard the stool squeak.

"How are we?" he asked. He briefly turned to watch her give him a hint of a smile.

"We're well," she laughed. Her hand automatically shifted to the slight, barely there swell of her belly and the V of the robe where the belt lay tied, and kept her hand there. "I think the sickness has finally disappeared once and for all."

He nodded. He was also grateful for this. She claimed there was no need for him to be up with her in the wee hours of the morning but she had stopped protesting the same week she had started when he slid down the wall next to her with a glass of water and a package of saltines. It had been this same routine every two hours previous to the acupuncture and afterwards it only happened when she ate foods that she later didn't appreciate but blamed it on the baby not liking it.

She sighed as she looked over at Red pouring oatmeal into two bowls.

He watched as her lips frowned and he chuckled.

"I wish real cravings would set in," she said as she watched him take a handful of blueberries and deposited into one of the bowls. He added raspberries to her own and sprinkled chocolate chips into the hot meal. She had bouts of it here and there-it's why he added the raspberries and chocolate chips to her oatmeal-but so far they were few and far between.

"Why?" He asked.

"So I have a legitimate excuse not to eat oatmeal or smoothie every morning," she sighed and grabbed her spoon as he chuckled.

He turned back to the stove and poured the hot water into a tea kettle. Two cups and loose leaf tea were already poised to accept the scalding water to steep.

She leaves her perch and goes round to the other side of the counter and brings their bowls to the table and watches out of the corner of her eye as he carries the tea tray and a newspaper and sits down next to her rather than across from her.

Their silence is only punctuated by flipping of the pages as he reads the paper and she occasionally scrapes against her bowl.

"Are you ready?" She asks through an almost finished mouthful of oatmeal. Although she despises the stuff, he makes a good bowl and what he adds seems to please her palate.

He shrugs but she reads the micro expression of happiness and worry on his face. She feels that if he were to ask the same of her, he'd get the same response.

She opened her mouth to stutter out an apology but her beat her to it.

"I think Dembe knew exactly what he was doing when he scheduled this exam," he tells her. It's a sign he doesn't think she's in on whatever Dembe has up his sleeve... if he has anything. Red is sure he does; Dembe never does anything without a lot of forethought.

She taps the empty spoon against her lips and hums in agreement.

"Do you want to find out or…" she trails off.

"Do you?" he answers her question with a question.

She nods and he mirrors it.

The rest of the morning meal is shared in silence. The occasional clink of a spoon and a sip of tea is the only real sound they make. She looks at him and doesn't find him getting lost in his own head but that doesn't mean she's safe from his turn inward. After all, its happened after the appointments rather than before.

As he washes their dishes he hears the clutter of paper and knows she's finding the puzzle for him. When he's finished he clears the counter and he pours an extra cup of tea for himself and hands her a tall glass of water as she leans against the bench of the breakfast nook, watching him work on the crossword of the day.

* * *

When he walks into the house later that afternoon, he's greeted by Hudson. He automatically leans down and pats the dog on the head. In return, Hudson ventures to the kitchen hoping for scraps or food. Red digs out the latter from the cupboard and listens for any sign of the other occupant. When he finds none, he checks his watch and notes the time. As he turns and surveys the room, he noticed something is off. He thought he smelled spice and vanilla but the odor was too faint for him to detect so he put it down to the hotel making something. Shaking his head of his thoughts and phantom odors, he makes sure Hudson's water bowl is filled and the dog is satisfied.

He leaves Hudson happily chowing down on his food as he slips down the halls and to the bedroom. He frowns when he notices the dark fabric over the usual white billowy curtains and the doors leading outside are shut rather than open like they typically have when napping in the afternoon sun. He's only slightly put off the fact she's decided to siesta without him there. She has expressly told him he was to leave with Dembe today when the latter did the afternoon shopping. He hadn't wanted to but backed down when she turned on him. He had made a comment she had already got the scolding mother look down and that broke her tough resolve.

He undoes his cufflinks and steps out of his dress pants and dress shirt, hanging them on a hanger knowing full well they had an appointment later tonight. As he carefully-so as not to wrinkle-gets mostly undresses, he takes in her form. Instead of being under the sheets or blankets, she simply lay on top of the sheets with the blankets at her feet. She's dressed in one of his day-old dress shirts and yoga tights that hug her lean figure. Instead of facing the doors like she typically did, she was facing towards his side of the bed and he put two and two together, knowing she was most likely trying to sleep off a migraine.

He can't help the bed dipping but that doesn't seem to wake her as she slumbers on, unaware of the fact he's crawling in. She's almost rolled onto her stomach and he thinks maybe it's not such a good idea to lay in that position now. He's been trying to rid her of the habit but clearly when she's alone in their bed she defaults back to her same sleeping patterns. So when he's made himself comfortable in the light blankets, tossing one over their bodies, he reaches over and makes sure she's tucked up against his side. His arm wraps around her waist and his fingers unconsciously unfurl over her belly. He can't feel anything different than what he's used to. She's not that far along and knows she's not supposed to feel anything for weeks. Nor is she particularly large in size. There is a small swell but not enough to really be noticeable. At least, if he remembers how it was with his first wife and how she didn't start to really show until well into her eighteenth week.

As he wrapped an arm around her and kept her from rolling onto her stomach, she smelled of the same spicy scent. He smiled into her hair as he discovered her secret. She had wanted him out because she had baked. He pressed his chilled nose into her warmed skin and she shifted sleepily away but didn't get far with his hold. He closed his eyes and his breathing slowed to deep and even breaths before Hudson made his way through the room and lay on the rug at the foot of the bed.

* * *

The clinic had only one other patient again in the waiting room. But she should have expected this since they're the last appointment of the day. This time Dembe doesn't have to go in search of an open market for good but elects to stay out of the clinic.

She's weighed and measured by the technician once again before sitting on the table as the younger man leaves to call upon the doctor.

Red takes off his coat and lays it the on the back of the chair reserved for a non patient like himself but he elects to stand. After all, this appointment should be quicker than the last.

She reaches for his hand as he stands beside her in favor of up against the wall. She smiled to herself as she noticed his cufflinks. She hadn't seen him all day except for this morning and after their afternoon nap. This morning she had been in the shower when he had eventually dressed and when she had woken after her nap and found him next to her, his dress shirt and pants were hanging on a hanger by their open bedroom door.

She twirls is once and he clears his throat so she looks up at him.

"I wear them every birthday," he says quietly.

A smile flits over her features and she nods once.

A knock at the door and Red's answer finds her staring at the doctor once again. Of course the last time she had seen her had been six weeks ago but the woman had obviously been studying the English language in the past six weeks.

There's a pause and Liz looks to Red as he looks at her.

"What?" She asks.

"She asked how you were feeling," he tells her.

"Oh," Liz whispers. She clears her throat and her fingers absently play with Red's own.

His quick nod is a slight comfort.

"Fine," she tells the doctor. "Migraine this morning."

The doctor frowns and Red comes up short with the Portuguese equivalent. So, Liz does the only thing she can: improvises and puts her free fingers on her temple and pinches her face.

Apparently that must be the universal signal for headache because the doctor nods in understanding.

Broken English and hand gestures are used by the doctor to get Liz to lay down and ready herself for the ultrasound. As the doctor turns to wash her hands, Liz lets go of Red and he stands back a few steps to not get in the way of either the doctor or the machine she's starting to wheel over towards the bed.

He watches as Lizzie lays on the exam table and the doctor begins with a small sorry as her chilled hands touch Liz's warm skin. Liz ignores the pressure against her bladder as the doctor examines her with her hands and she knows from her reading that the doctor is feeling where the baby is at growth wise. The doctor nods and writes something down on the file she has at the edge of the exam table and reaches for the gel for the sonogram. The smell of the gel hit both their noses as Lizzie bunched her shirt at the start of her ribcage. He watches Lizzie as her brows furrow slightly and she pushes out a silent but deep breath.

The doctor uses broken English and a mix of Portuguese and Red translates only a few phrases she doesn't comprehend. He knows when this happens because her brow furrows slightly and her lips purse ever so slightly as she tries to mask her confusion. Sometimes he thinks he should have thought about the language barrier. Perhaps they should have gone somewhere English was the dominate language; or at least to one of his safehouses where he could get a doctor who he trusted to look after her and knew English. But alas here they are and both the doctor and Lizzie are looking at him, almost patiently waiting for a response.

"The baby," Liz says. "I think she wants to know if we want to know."

Red looks at her and their brief second of eye contact seems to stretch as green meets blue. He watches as she bites the inside of her lip. He doesn't know if he wants to know; but he knows she does. So, he nods. He can hear her slight hitch in her breathing and he thinks that he made the right decision. He doesn't miss her squeezing his hand in a slight thanks.

"Menina," the doctor says. She translates in a thick accent. "Girl."

The doctor was pointing at the screen but Liz turned to watch Red as he focused on the black and white screen. She kept waiting for Red to do something, anything. The twitch of his thumb against her hand was the only reaction she got.

He suddenly clears his throat and she turns her head and listens to their voices as Red exchanges with the doctor.

She doesn't understand what he's asked the doctor but the woman nods and he only watches as she hands Liz a few tissues to wipe her stomach of the gel. Once again, Red has a pocket square in his pocket. But instead of handing it to Lizzie, he silently asks her permission with a simple gesture of his hand. She nods and can't help but flit her eyes between his hands and the intense concentration on his face.

His warm fingers trace almost lightly over her stomach. He's always been so much more tactile than her and she wonders why he's never touched her like this before. Well, at least not that she's known. She's sure he touches her while she's asleep; she wakes up with his palm under her shirt more often than not. But he's never touched her like this and she is craving the simple contact; the light touch of his fingers against her sensitive skin. His touch is brief and he quickly changes direction and begins to pull down her shirt, leaving her to roll up and button her pants when she's in a sitting position. His finger dips to her chin and brings her chin up to face him as she slowly sits up and he tries to convey a brief, reassuring smile.

Before she can get anything out, the doctor comes back and hands him a single sonogram and an envelope to her. She frowns slightly but takes the small envelope.

The doctor leaves the room and leaves the door open, signaling the end of their appointment.

"Dinner?" he asks as he shrugs on his jacket.

"Sure," she nods. She doesn't miss the fact he's stuffed the sonogram into his vest pocket. She'll have to remember to go over his pockets before he does the laundry. She's still sure they're missing one from their last stack but she hasn't been able to find it and thinks that maybe now she knows exactly who took it.

She wonders when they're going to talk about this but she doesn't want to push. After all, he's already on the edge due to his birthday being today.

He lets her take his arm as they quietly make their way out of the clinic and into the awaiting car.

"Cravings?" He asked as Dembe drove them away from the clinic and into town.

"Isn't the one with the birthday supposed to pick the restaurant?" She asked. That's how it always was when Sam took her out to his birthday and she took him out later when she could afford it.

"Perhaps in a conventional birthday year but you are starting to crave some dinner things lately and I'd hate to disappoint," Red points out.

She thinks she hears Dembe laugh lowly.

"Pampas," she said finally.

"Beef stroganoff?" He guessed with a chuckle.

"Obviously she's yours. I've never tried beef stroganoff until two weeks ago and now I have cravings for it," she says in a hushed tone.

He wanted to point out it was a tentative she but deep down he knew it would be a girl. He had a feeling. It was striking how his second chance would be a real second chance. But he's still not sure if he's really ready. They need to talk about this but he doesn't want to burden her with his past and she doesn't want to step on any ghostly toes.

They arrive at Pampas moments later and are led to the private open air seating once Red dropped the name of the chef. Instead of the front where hoards of tourists sat waiting for service, they were led to a private side area. The crowded uproarious buzz of the restaurant seemed to almost drop to a low buzz as soon as they turned the corner.

Dembe tried to sit at a different table but as he was almost led away, Liz called out and walked the few paces he had escaped.

"It's his birthday," she says. As if that was explanation enough.

Dembe simply eyes her.

"You're family, too," she tells him.

It's when his eyes shift she smiles and dismisses the maitre de with a nod. She and Dembe move back a few paces to the table and she sits in the chair next to Red as Dembe takes the seat across from him. The hand that touches hers squeezes her fingers briefly in thanks and she knows although he doesn't like birthdays he does indeed think of Dembe as family, too.

It's strange watching Red drink a beer from tap but then she's seen much stranger things these days and she thinks his motto really is 'when in Rome.' It smells almost like coffee as it stands next to her water and the warm winds waft around them. She doesn't pretend to know about wine but she does know about beer, well, a small amount, but more so than her wine knowledge and knows by the looks of it Red certainly prefers the darker ales to the pale ones. Dembe's on the other side of the spectrum and prefers the pale ale. She can't smell his but he's also not sitting next to her.

As they order their food and hand over their menus, Red's arm goes to the back of her chair and his fingers brush against her bare skin on her upper arm as she leans back into her chair. It's reminiscent of the time he did the same motion to soothe her in the middle of Wujing's hideaway. If she leans towards him in her chair, he certainly doesn't say anything. The touch certainly lulls her into a comfortable zoned out mood and she is lulled into a further comfortable state listening to the sounds of Red and Dembe's voices as they exchange meaningless news to her about the criminal world. Somehow, she tunes back in as Red's voice mentions the appointment.

His fingers stop for a brief moment and she's left the envelope of sonograms in the car but Red takes the single one the doctor gave him out of his vest pocket and hands it over. She watches as Red takes a deep drink and then drags her eyes to try and gauge Dembe's reaction.

"A girl," he notes quietly.

"Indeed," Red nods.

But that's all there is time for. Dembe hands the sonogram back and she doesn't miss the look he gives both of them. Although she has no time to decipher it. The waiter comes back with another pint for Red and Dembe and a few minutes later brings their dinners with a pitcher of water to refill her own glass and Red's half empty one on the other side of his place setting.

Her beef stroganoff is piled on rice and she doesn't miss Red eying her plate. She pushes her plate towards him and he immediately takes the invitation before he digs into his meal. Even though he prefers noodles while she prefers rice, he'll take stroganoff any way its served to him.

Dembe's lamb chops smell delicious to her but she quells the urge to ask him for a sample since she doesn't even like lamb.

Red's choice of dish is probably the most surprising to her. It's a rack of ribs with fries and he's got a bib around his neck and sauce on his fingers. It's messy and nothing like he's ordered before but he's perfectly content and she

"Dembe's is better," Liz says as they both chew the stroganoff thoughtfully.

He nods in agreement. Dembe had made it one night a few weeks ago and although she initially turned her nose up at the mere name, she can't get enough of it now. He briefly wonders if she'll still be receptive to the idea of the dinner after she has the baby.

There is a long lull between the start of dinner and the end and she genuinely laughs a few times over Red's messy dinner. She steals his fries and swirls them in the leftover stroganoff on her plate and finds the taste to be spectacular. Red and Dembe give her a look but don't say a word as she continues.

The waiter asks if they want the dessert menu and Liz immediately says no.

Red tilts his head, as if trying to read the answer on her impassive face, but gets nothing. He turns to Dembe and his loyal friend has turned to the other side and sits with an amused expression on his face and says nothing.

Dembe drives them back to the villa and quietly takes Hudson for his nightly walk as Liz takes Red to the kitchen.

Dembe had done as she asked: she had borrowed the guest house as he and Red had gone grocery shopping to bake the single round sheet of spice cake and brought the cake to the table and stuck a red candle in the middle of the frosted cake as they had the ultrasound before picking them back up in time for dinner. She really did need to do something for the silent shadow of hers and Red's to thank him for everything he's done for them.

She pulled a lighter from her pocket-she bought it when she and Dembe went to the store-and the miniature lighter sparked a bright orange as it met with the wick of the single candle. There was a brief snap of her releasing the lighter and she whispered the instructions to make a wish.

She watched from across the table as the single candle flickered over his face. She leaned back in her chair and her hands were absently caressing her stomach from both her food baby she felt and the barely there bump of their own child. His eyes were dark and staring right into hers as he blew out the candle.

"You might not want to eat it," she told him. "I'm not the best cook."

He chuckled and took the candle from the frosting and set it aside.

"I'm sure you're not trying to poison me," he said as he swiped a finger through the frosting.

"No," she laughed. "I don't want to do this alone."

"We need to talk," he trails off.

"Tomorrow," she stops him. "Let's just... just... make the most of today."

He nods and she nods in return.

She feels his stare and moves around him to grab a fork.

"How'd you know about the spice cake?" he asks as she comes around to his side and offers up a single fork.

"Luli mentioned it once, actually," she said. "I saw this mix at the store with Dembe that actually had English directions and thought I'd give it a shot."

She watched as he stabbed his fork into the edge of the cake, gathering both the frosting and cake and sniffed it with a small smile before tasting it. He didn't spit it back out so one of her brows rose in question and he nodded.

"Not bad for an amateur," he said. "I'll have to teach you how to make it from scratch."

She shook her head and took a bite for herself. She silently hoped they wouldn't die of food poisoning or e-coli or salmonella or something by tomorrow morning. It was surprisingly good and whatever flavor of frosting Dembe had chosen at the store had paired well. And thinking of the man in question, he and Hudson walked through the door. The latter darted for Red's form and Red sat down on the stool and pat the dog's head. Liz grabbed Dembe his own fork and happily ate the cake without question and soon the single sheet eight inch round cake was more of a half eaten crumb and frosting mess in the pan.

Liz sided up to Red and he wrapped an arm around her waist, resting on her hips. She turned to half face him and bit her lip. She leaned down slightly, enough to brush her lips against his ear and whisper.

"Happy birthday, Raymond," she whispered.

She pulled back but he paused her movement with a subtle squeeze of his fingers against her hipbone. She leaned back down again and this time his nose brushed against her cheek as he whispered his thanks. And before she could move back to stand up straight, he captured her lips with his. It was far too brief and far too quick for either of their liking but Dembe was still present and Liz was still not terribly comfortable with Red's often brazen displays of affection.

* * *

"I'm going to need your thieving skills again, my dear," he tells her as they walk along the beach with Hudson.

"Madeline?" She asks as he tosses a stick to Hudson who walks in front of them.

"No," he says flippantly. "I haven't seen or heard from her in about a year. No doubt she's trying to keep tabs though."

She doesn't ask if it's dangerous because she knows that he's not going to put her in danger, especially these days. The day after his birthday, the day they were supposed to talk about the baby's gender, got lost in the fray. Dembe had relayed to Red that there was a problem with one of his accounts in the Caymans and Red went to deal with it personally. He had left her behind with Hudson and she didn't mind because he had called every morning and every evening. But he had left for two weeks, closing each Cayman account and opening one elsewhere. He was sure the FBI was watching him, at least electronically drain his accounts and didn't want her to be round up if anything went wrong with his money, especially now that Luli wasn't here to manage it. He trusted Dembe but money was never his strong suit so Red had to handle it personally.

Hudson brings back a wet stick and half of his furry hair is wet and sandy. She's shaken out of her thoughts as Hudson's tail thwacks her leg. Red leans to his side and she leans with him as she has an arm wrapped around his own and she was already leaning into him. Red tugs on the stick as Hudson bites down harder and growls before releasing it.

"Why is it dogs always fight you when you play fetch?" He asks rhetorically as Hudson releases it and tosses it again.

"What's the job?" She asks as she attempts to get him back on track.

"I have a bank account in Zurich; a safety deposit if we're being honest. I gave most of my identities to the FBI when I turned myself in. This account was one of them that I turned in."

"So, it's an old account?" she asks.

"Indeed," he nods.

"They're watching you?" She wonders.

"More like they'll know if I accessed the account," he tells her. "The Cayman accounts only held five to eight million each. The ones I've set up in the more secure banks that aren't in my name have a more significant number in terms of funds."

He knows she's never one to slowly connect the dots and she knows he's not telling her everything.

"So, what do you need from me?" She asks.

He stops her and they pause. Hudson circles around them and Red leans down to toss the stick one last time.

"There's an account there in your name. Well, an alias I gave to you. It's a few boxes below my own."

"What's so important that I have to get it?" She frowns as he tiptoes around the elephant in the room.

He looks down at their feet and he clears his throat.

"Some papers," he said as he looks up at her.

"I'm not going to risk my freedom for _some_ papers," she says as she emphasizes the vagueness of his some. "And I know you won't either. So, what is so important?"

"Legal papers," he relents.

She bites her lip and notes his seriousness.

"How am I supposed to get in?" She wondered.

"If Madeline can get to one of my boxes without fuss, you can go in with little consequence. I have a copy of the master key and I will give you my own key to open my box," he says.

"What's in my box?" She asks..

"Money, papers to all my accounts, a note," he shrugs.

"What kind of note?"

"Feel free to open it up when you're inside," he says.

He whistles for Hudson as they make their way up the little cliff on their private alcove of the beach and back up to the villa.

"I'll make dinner," he says quietly.

She nods and lets go of his arm as they reach the patio.

"I'll clean him up," she nods.

"Lizzie," he calls out as she takes Hudson's collar in her grip as the dog attempts to follow him into the house with sand still embedded in his hair.

"I just need to think it over, Red," she tells him honestly.

He nods.

He leaves her to think over the information. He knows they'll have to talk about this. Just like they talk about other things. Its all quickly piling up and he knows she hasn't been sleeping well and it's not just because the baby.

Dinner is a quiet affair. Afterwards they sit at the table where the chess board is and he teaches her how to play. After months of asking, he's finally teaching her some productive countermoves and she is quickly becoming a formidable opponent for him when she is actually paying close attention to the game. But they're both distracted and he takes her key pieces away in a matter of moments.

"I'll do it," she says suddenly.

He's distracted enough by the sudden agreement of his plan that she captures a pawn of his.

"You don't want to talk about it?" he asks.

"You want the papers and I have the ability to get them," she shrugs.

"We'll need to go back to DC," he says.

There's a pause in movement from her and she bring her hand down as it moves to move a piece of hers.

"I need Ressler's intel on Zurich to see what countermeasures we need to take," he tells her. "They have most likely changed it since I got away with all my money and gave them the slip in the Caymans."

"We're going home?" she asks.

He nods and doesn't miss that she still calls DC home. Even after nine weeks of being here.

He checkmates her soon enough and she frowns. He sets up another round but she yawns and he suggests she heads to bed for the night. She nods without question and as she passes, he places a hand on her waist and he thumbs the material of her shirt. He whispers a goodnight and she repeats his sentiment.

A few hours later she realizes it's not warm enough to be out here in the shorts and pajama top she wears but he has yet to come to bed and she finds she can't sleep without him tonight. He's sipping on a watered down drink she assumes is scotch when her hand lands on his shoulder. He looks up and gives a twitch of a smile as he finds her hair sleep mused and her sleepy eyes looking down at him.

"Where's Dembe?" She asks.

"Most likely sleeping. Like I thought you would be doing," he tells her.

He moves over and she moves to sit. She sighs quietly and her shoulders brush against his own as she leans against the back of the chair.

She knows when he's like this, she usually has to initiate the conversation. He'll keep it going but he needs a baseline for what he needs to get off his chest. She studies his profile and notes that he looks like she feels. At this point, he probably feels like he's in the Inferno, crawling up the down and getting nowhere. It's both their faults. She's been in her own head and hasn't really gotten a chance to speak with him much unless it had been by phone. She's the profiler and he's the one with years of experience of reading people and here they are in the twilight finally finding time to speak.

There's a way to get Raymond Reddington to tell his truths. Its been a long and hard fought battle over the years but she can occasionally get into his head and let him speak his truths. However much he wants to distance himself from his past, he cannot. Its a part of him, one that he thinks she resents about him but she doesn't and truthfully doesn't know how many times it's going to take her to tell him that and have it stick in his heart.

She honestly doesn't know where to start tonight. So she does the one thing that they both can relate to: she places his watery scotch on the table in front of them and takes her hand in his, and then places both their hands on her waist. She's grown and although it isn't significant, it's discernible now when she in tighter clothing like she is now and she closes her eyes and his thumb begins to rub up and down the material of her shirt.

"They're the second thing I think about," he tells her quietly. Its almost a whisper if it wasn't for the crack in his voice when he breaks on the word second. "She's second."

Her mind goes into overdrive quickly to try and catch up and when she does, she can't help the tears that form. She knows if she opens her eyes, he will see them and its not pity as much as it is understanding despite her lack of intimate knowledge about what it's like to lose the only people you've ever cared about. But she opens her eyes anyway and she finds him staring at his thumb.

"I once told Donald, after Audrey died, that there is nothing that can take the pain away, but eventually he'd find a way to live with it…. Everyday, when he wakes up it will be the first thing he thinks about. Until one day, it will be the second thing."

He works his jaw and she notices the tremor in his hand but doesn't say anything.

"I wrote it down because there was no way he'd ever believe a man who still woke up and the first thought was of his wife and daughter," Red says as he licks his lips. "He'd see my words for the lie it was at the time. Twenty odd years later and I can still smell the nape of my daughter's neck as she hugged me as I got home from work every night; the sigh my wife made as I ate a half a scoop more of orange sherbet after she'd already said no more."

The tear leaks out and she watches his free finger stop the progress of the salty tear track. He's not supposed to be the one comforting her. Its supposed to be the other way around.

"When Dembe and I were gone, the first full day," he clarifies, "My first thought wasn't of them."

He looks her in the eye as he continues. Watery blue meets green and she thinks that maybe the red-rimmed eyes aren't only from exhaustion.

"I thought of you and of her," he confesses as he looks at her and then draws their eye line down to their hands as they rest on her stomach. "I lay on the bed that morning and imagined you next to me. I thought of the way you hog the sheets and blankets and create a cocoon for yourself and how I think one day you'll end up suffocating yourself and hope she doesn't get that same trait. And how you stretch and that little popping sound your toes make as you walk from the bed to the washroom. How your hand, every morning, despite being apprehensive of all of this, goes to your stomach. And that little smile you get when I greet you in the kitchen with your least favorite breakfast but eat in anyway."

She opens her mouth to form some sort of response but he speaks again. He feels guilty about this and its almost a confession to her and an apology to his wife and child at the same time. She needs to get out what's been bothering her, too. Before it crushes them both.

"I didn't think I'd ever follow my own advice," he whispers.

"I never want to replace them," she confesses. "I don't..."

She bites the inside of her cheek and waits for him to look at her.

"Is it horrible that I wished for a boy so we weren't thought of as a replacement family?" she asks him. "What if she knows I wanted her to be a boy so bad that she ends up hating me."

"I don't think I'll ever think of you as a replacement, Lizzie. A second chance, perhaps. But never a replacement." He removes his hand from her stomach and takes her hand instead. He tightens his grip before speaking. "And our child could never hate you. If you choose to take one thing from tonight, take that much."

She thinks if she repeats this, maybe she'll start to believe it, too.

"My wife was nothing like you, you know," he tells her. She thinks he's giving her this in an attempt to have her believe she's not a replacement but a second love. After all, he believes in those kinds of things whereas she is a little more apprehensive about who she gives her heart to, especially after Tom. Although, this man knows he's wormed his way in over the years; he's carved his own little space that only keeps growing at an exponential level each time he lets her in further. She loves him but can't say the words yet. But she knows deep down that he knows. She listens intently as he continues. "You're strong and smart in different ways. She was definitely more artistic and a much better cook."

She laughs because if she doesn't she'll start to cry and she hates that she can do that seemingly at the drop of a hat these days.

"I'll tell you of them one day," he says. And she thinks that maybe that means what happened, or what he knows happened. And she knows that she's not emotionally ready for that tonight.

"Everything is going to be okay," she says as she leans into him and wraps her arms around him.

He hugs her back tightly and fiercely. He sure as hell hopes so because he doesn't know what he'll do if another chance is taken from him.

She shivers and he suggests that they move to the bedroom. The confessions have led them both the emotional exhaustion and he thinks perhaps he'll still be in bed with her when she wakes. Or at least he feels like he could sleep for years. And if looks are anything to go by, she can as well.

And as he predicts, the next morning, she hits a warm human shaped wall as she sleepily shifts. It's automatic these days to shift to his side of the bed and settle in his warmth as he leaves the bed. But today is different as she finds out. Instead of an empty side of the bed she pries opens her eyes and finds him still asleep. She curls into him. Her head tucks between his chin and his shoulder and she tucks her chilly hands between them. She's glad he's wearing a shirt because her hands are a little chillier than the rest of her. And she takes it as a good sign when his arm automatically wraps around her. She finds she can definitely sleep for a few hours more. She just hopes Dembe can take care of a rambunctious Hudson today.

* * *

She bites her lip and leans into him as they wait for Dembe to bring the car around. She doesn't question how Dembe always seems to find a car to drive but this is home and she thinks maybe he called one of his contacts.

"You okay?" he asks.

It was a long flight from Albufeira to Barcelona and then Barcelona to Reagan but they had to take commercial to find out if their covers-her cover, really-could withstand the test. And he didn't want his new tail number out for all the government agencies to see. He could hide in plain sight but the plane was a bit harder. He knew it would pass inspection, otherwise he wouldn't have risked taking her with him. But she was the one who wanted to make sure.

"We're fine," she said. "Hungry but fine."

"Can we get Beltway Burgers?" she asks.

He nods and she leans into him just as Dembe pulls up to the curb.

"Where are we going?" she asks as Dembe loads their few bags and Red holds the back door open for her and Hudson.

"You and Hudson will be heading to a house Mr. Kaplan has set up outside DC. Dembe and I will need to contact Donald tonight if we're going to try and spend only a few days here," he tells her.

"Mr. Kaplan is in town?" she asks with slightly narrowed eyes.

"As a friend," he says.

"Fine," she nods and gets into the car.

At the burger place, Mr. Kaplan meets them and drives Hudson and Liz to the house while Red and Dembe go to the one place they know they'll find Donald Ressler tonight.

He thought it was surprising that all the trips Donald had made to the Hampstead house went unnoticed by the FBI. It was still not under surveillance even after all these months. He checked and double checked his favorite house for any bugs before he even thinks about bringing Lizzie back here.

He waits in the shadows as he hears the locks being picked and the floorboard just to the side of the door creak as a weight is placed on it. He nods his head and holds in an amused grin as he hears careful footsteps. The footsteps halt as his shadowy figure is traced by the observant man and that's when Red lets out a hollow laugh as he steps out of the shadows and into the streetlight.

"Hello, Donald," he says. His jaw moves on its own accord, stretching and working itself as it releases some of the tension he's had on his shoulders since he told Lizzie they'd see each other later tonight.

"Reddington," Ressler whispers. He drops his hands that were poised and ready to draw his nonexistent firearm up to the intruder. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Red nods his head and plasters a smile on his face and then drops it for a more serious expression.

"I need your help," he says.

Ressler narrows his eyes in skepticism but with Red holding out his hand to have them move towards the couch to sit, he knows the older man is serious. Donald thinks perhaps this favor might buy him the one thing he's wanted.


End file.
